Mariposa
by Literaryluminations
Summary: Like a butterfly, Santana's journey out of the closet occurs in stages. From the first time she heard the word gay to the first time she flew free from her chrysalis, she can remember everything.
1. Egg

**Disclaimer: I don't own Glee.**

**Summary: Like a butterfly, Santana's journey out of the closet occurs in stages. From the first time she heard the word gay to the first time she flew free from her chrysalis, she can remember everything. Spoilers up to 2.22.**

**A/N: A HUGE thank you to lajeunefilleenfleur for working with me on chapter 4. I am humbled and honored to work with such a talented person. I—and my story—grew a lot (for the better!) under her guidance. **

**Thanks to lingeringlilies and terriblemuriel for their assistance. **

**And for those who don't know, ****_mariposa_**** is Spanish for butterfly. I'm going with a butterfly life cycle theme for Santana's emergence from the closet because it's a metaphor and metaphors are important. Reviews are much appreciated!**

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><p>Santana was eleven the first time she ever heard the word lesbian, and, looking back on it, how she wished her first time had been different.<p>

She'd been at a Junior Cheerios sleepover. The captain of the squad, Tiffany, had monthly sleepovers for her hand-picked group of favorites; now that she and Brittany were on the 'yes' list, their attendance was mandatory.

Santana could even remember where they were all sitting. She and Brittany were curled up next to each other, bare thighs flush together in their Soffe shorts, huddled under Brittany's glow-in-the-dark sleeping bag. Tiffany was perched on a leather recliner, her two favorite lackeys by her feet. Ten other girls were lounging around in the den, chatting noisily amongst themselves and gossiping in a way that would put their equally stuck-up mothers to shame.

"Hey, Santana," Brittany whispered. Well, it was Brittany's version of a whisper. She hadn't quite mastered the art of whispering _quietly _yet, so she sounded like a chain smoking, slightly deaf person.

"Hey Britt-Britt." Santana gently nudged her with her shoulder.

"Guess what?" Brittany's thigh began to twitch with excitement and pent-up energy. She could never sit still for long. Even in sleep, she kicked and punched and wiggled like a flag in a hurricane.

Santana hummed. "Um... you want a pet unicorn?"

The posse's heads snapped to glare at the girls. They were supposed to be _pre-teenagers _now. Unicorns were for babies. So were sprites, fairies, trolls, and ogres. Too bad Brittany still believed in them. Santana slid further under the slippery blanket.

"I mean... that that Penelope girl is totally bulimic?" She blurted. The posse settled like a flock of chickens, feathers rustling and everything.

"Totally. But that's not what I wanted you to guess. D'you know what today is?"

Santana racked her brain. She hadn't forgotten Brittany's birthday because that was a month ago and their matching silver friendship bracelets were still clasped around their wrists, the solid weight reminding Santana of Brittany every time she lifted her hand. Her own birthday was still a few months away. Brittany's baby sister's birthday was during the summer.

"Nope, tell me."

"It's our Best-Friends-Forever-a-versary!" Brittany squealed. "We've been best friends for a whole year!"

The group of girls began chattering amongst themselves. Santana's ears burned. She loved her best friend so much, more than she loved anyone, but _why _did she have to be so _embarrassing_? Brittany could be so weird sometimes. She'd wear two different shoes out of the house; would wear stripes with checks but not polka dots; danced_constantly _and everywhere; and she talked about monsters and ghosts and gnomes like they were real (and in the dark, curled up against Brittany's belly, Santana nearly believed too).

Brittany's problem was that she didn't care who she talked to: she would tell the janitor about her homework, her teachers about what she had for dinner, and her parents about every forbidden thing she and Santana did together. And, secretly? Santana loved her all the more for her quirkiness. But she was constantly messing up her plans: plans to secure their popularity _now_ so they didn't have to work so hard in high school. Brittany attracted awkward situations like the feeder outside Brittany's house attracted hummingbirds, but the hummingbirds handled their dinner with a lot more grace than Brittany handled confrontations. She cried when others called her names, she tattled when kids stole her school supplies, and when Tiffany had _finally _invited Santana (and Brittany, because they were kind of a package deal) to one of her legendary sleepovers, Brittany had _hugged _her in excitement.

"Is it?" Santana tried to act nonchalant and too cool to be interested in such elementary-school things like best-friend-a-versaries.

"Mm-hmm. I should have gotten you a present."

Santana fought back a grin. "That's okay, Britt. I didn't even remember so I guess I owe you a present."

"Gosh, you guys are such _babies_." Tiffany let out a short, barking laugh, which the other cheerleaders copied. She got up and shook out her enviously long showgirl legs, marching over to the large TV mounted against the wall. "Don't make me regret letting you come here. We're watching a movie now."

Brittany, oblivious to Tiffany's warning, turned to look at Santana. "What're you going to give me?"

"Ummmmm," Santana trailed off, the wheels in her brain turning. "I dunno. Give me a hint?"

Brittany made her fingers skip across her bouncing, suntanned thighs. "Something small and sweet."

Small and sweet... like doughnut holes, if they weren't forbidden by Coach. Or Easter chicks, if Brittany was allowed to have little pets. _Or... _Santana's heart began to thud and her armpits prickled. Could she? It would be little. And sweet. And romantic, and goodness knows Brittany loved gooey, romantic things.

Santana sucked in a deep breath and glanced around, her eyes darting around the room like a searchlight. All the girls were occupied, arguing about which movie to watch. So, with another gasping breath, Santana leaned forward and pursed her lips.

She _meant _to kiss Brittany on the cheek, on that soft spot on her cheekbone that still had some baby fat, but at the last second Brittany must have turned her head or something, because she was kissing the corner of her mouth. Santana felt a shiver zap down her spine like a live wire. Brittany's mouth was _so _soft, and she smelled so good, like bubblegum and sleeping kittens and frangipani blossoms. Santana could feel Brittany's heartbeat through her thin skin, speeding up the longer she kept her lips pressed there. She knew she should pull away but something kept her there, kissing her best friend almost-but-not-quite on the mouth.

"Oh my gosh, you girls are lezzies!" came the offended shriek. Santana shot backwards, eyes wide. Her hand came up automatically to cover her lips. She didn't know what that word meant but she knew it was _bad_. Shoot. Shoot shoot shoot. She'd ruined _everything_. There went her future. Shoot.

Brittany squinted one eye and tilted her head. "I don't understand," she said. The girls laughed.

"Of course you don't." Tiffany sniffed.

Santana's hackles raised. As frustrated as she could be with Brittany's Brittany-ness, she was _allowed _to be_. _She was her best friend. She loved her. She would _never _make her feel stupid on purpose. Never ever.

But how to defend Brittany and save face? This was Tiffany's sleepover. Tiffany still knew what that funny word meant. If only Santana knew the meaning of that word, then she could find a comeback more original than_ so's your face _and one-up her so she and Brittany could laugh. Then it hit her. Why not just ask? Play the innocent card. Their spots at the sleepover could still be safe.

"I don't understand either. What's... lezzies?"

Tiffany tried to raise her eyebrow, but she couldn't lift one by itself so she looked like someone had shined a bright light in her face. "You've seriously never..?" Santana shook her head.

"It's when two women like, have... they... _do things _with each other. They like... love each other. Like guys and girls are supposed to. It's like, _so_ gross."

"But I love Santana…" It comes out like a question and it made Santana's blood curdle.

"Not like that!" she squeaked. Brittany's face fell.

"You don't... love me?"

_Shoot. _"No, no, of course I love you! Just not like..."

"Not like _lesbians_," a girl sneers. "My daddy talks about the gays like, all the time. He says they're gross and going to hell and if I talk to one they're going to steal me because they can't have kids of their own."

Brittany looked confused. "Are lesbian and gay the same thing? Because my favorite uncles are gay and I love them lots. They have a poodle and a swimming pool!"

The girls gasped. "Weren't you scared?" One girl asked, mouth open in an O. "Aren't you afraid of catching the gay?"

"She already has it!" another girl squealed, scrambling backwards away from Brittany. "She's already infected Santana and she's going to infect the whole squad!" The girls began to shriek.

Brittany looked tearful. "They're so nice, though... they got me rainbow ice cream with sprinkles and we built a blanket fort and read stories inside. Why are you being so mean?"

"Can we just watch the movie already?" Santana stood up and brushed off her shorts, trying to look like she didn't care. But her stomach felt really funny, funnier than that time Brittany dared her to eat a bag of marshmallows while standing on her head. "Brittany and I aren't... Lebanese. We like boys! Isn't Turner _sooo _cute?"

Turner was Tiffany's crush. That was sure to get a rise out of her and make her forget they _ever _had this conversation.

"Hey!" Tiffany wheeled around to stare down at Santana. "Don't you dare try anything! Turner is _mine _for the spring dance! _Mine! _He wouldn't like you, anyway; your knees are all knobby and your hair is kinky and you're just too Hispanic."

"Whatever," Santana rolled her eyes and sat down next to Brittany. "I hear he gave Berry a pen in science class."

"No! He _didn't_!" Tiffany began to pace, plotting Rachel Berry's demise.

Eventually, they managed to calm Tiffany down enough to start the movie. It was some stupid gushy teen comedy where some loser liked a jock but he had a super popular girlfriend. Santana couldn't be bothered to pay attention. She stared ahead at the screen, the light flashing painfully behind her eyes. Her heart felt heavy, like it was too big for her chest. She was constantly getting called names, so being called this new one—_lesbian_, she remembered—shouldn't make her feel so weird. Maybe it was because she was always sure to give herself a nickname first? After getting called a big fat meaniehead for knocking over Georgie McNelp's block tower in kindergarten, Santana had made it a point to slip in disparaging words whenever she talked about herself. That way, whenever someone else called her something nasty, it didn't hurt as much because _she _had pretty much given them permission to call her those particular names.

Or maybe she felt heavy because of what that word insinuated? Being a bitch was a _choice_, a decision she made so she would be strong and not get walked all over by people meaner than her. But this... this lesbian thing. What did it mean? Why was it so bad; why did it make all the girls scream and shrink and gag? She loved Brittany, but that wasn't bad, was it? She loved Brittany with her whole self, so much it hurt sometimes. They understood things about each other that nobody else could understand. They were best friends, the best kind of friends there were.

But then, the love Tiffany had been talking about was different, wasn't it? It wasn't just best-friend love, it was, like, fairytale married love. It wasn't just I-love-you-and-want-you-to-be-happy love, it was I-love-you-and-want-you-to-be-happy-with-_me _love. Bile rose in Santana's throat, choking her. That was what she felt about Brittany. That was the feeling she got whenever they had sleepovers in the winter and Brittany forgot it was below freezing and wore a tank top and underwear and Santana had to lie on top of her as they slept so she wouldn't turn to ice. She wanted to protect her and make her smile that special Brittany smile only Santana got to see. She wanted to wake up next to her every morning forever. She wanted... _no. _She _couldn't_.

She did.

She _loved _Brittany. But she _couldn't._

A tear escaped when Santana screwed up her eyes against the glare of the TV. It slithered down her cheek, leaving a burning-hot-then-icy trail in its wake.

She _couldn't _love her. Not like that. Not when people reacted like Tiffany and the rest of the squad did. Not when she hadn't known two women could love each other like this before tonight.

She'd just have to hide it. Nobody would ever have to know, right? She would date guys once they grew from scrawny, stinky kids into muscled teenagers, and so would Brittany. They'd still be friends, though. They'd _have _to. And Brittany would always be her favorite. Not being close to her wasn't an option. She loved her too much for that.

The rest of the night was a blur. Santana curled up in her sleeping bag and tried to shut out the world as the rest of the girls gossiped around her. She usually would have joined in—her nicknames were legendary and she was ruthless—but she just didn't have the energy for it tonight. She just felt too heavy, like a Santana-sized sandbag.

Later that night, after all the girls had fallen asleep in a line like sardines, Brittany crept into Santana's sleeping bag.

"Hi," she chirped, running her fingers through Santana's hair.

"No more cookies," Santana murmured back, her voice rusty with sleep. "I'll get fat."

"No, you won't. Wake up, Santana."

"Huh? Britt?" Santana's heart began to race. Brittany was so close to her. She smelled so good. Damn Tiffany for making her aware of her feelings. Things were so much easier without them.

"Hi," she breathed, nuzzling her face into Santana's shoulder. "I just wanted to thank you. That was a lovely BFF-a-versary present. I'm sorry it got you into trouble. I know how much being here means to you."

"S'okay," Santana yawned and kicked her feet, trying to calm her speeding heart and rushing head. "Not your fault. They were being jerks."

"Yeah. I don't like them anymore, Santana. They're mean."

"Being mean gets you places," Santana pressed her shoulders and wrists down at her sides. "I'm sorry they were mean to you. I'm sure your uncles are super nice."

Santana could feel Brittany's smile through the darkness. It made her heart feel all heavy again.

"Can I give you a BFF-a-versary kiss too?" Brittany asked hopefully. Santana went rigid. Maybe if she didn't answer Brittany would forget?

After a minute, Brittany poked Santana in the shoulder. "Are you asleep?"

"N-no." Santana's voice was high and shaky.

"Do you not want me to? I liked your kiss. It make me feel like I was riding a unicorn. Except that that's unethical, because unicorns aren't meant to be ridden. But it made me tingly, which is what I think riding a unicorn would feel like."

"I..." Santana's voice sounded like it was coming from behind a very thick wall. "Britt, did you understand? That's not... we're not... it's just bad..."

"Do you really think so?" Brittany's voice was slow and sad. "Did you not like it?"

Santana whimpered and reached out to cup Brittany's cheek. "No, I did. A lot. We just can't..."

"Nobody has to know, Santana. I just want to kiss you. It doesn't have to be a big deal. Please?"

Santana felt tears prickle the backs of her eyes. If only real life could be like that. It was too much. Everything felt like it was spinning.

"Kiss me, Brittany."

Brittany beamed into the darkness before pursing her lips and pressing them against Santana's ever-so-tenderly. Her lips were soft and sugary and slightly chapped. They made the world stop spinning, leaving Santana dizzy and nauseous with whiplash. Brittany pulled away a few seconds later and enveloped her in a cocoon-like hug.

"I love you, Santana." Brittany kissed the top of her head. "But I promise not to tell you in front of the meanieheads anymore."

Santana made a noise that sounded like a mix between a fish out of water and a howl, her whole body aflame. She began to cry into Brittany's neck, clinging to her shoulders for stability.

There was no denying it: she loved her. But nobody could ever know.


	2. Hatchling

**This chapter is rated M. Heh. Whoops.**

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><p>Ms. Morah reminded Santana of a potted orchid. She had long, skinny legs and a petite, flat waist that looked like a freshly made bed. Her close-set eyes were perched above her prow of a nose, and her lips were a thin Cupid's bow that Santana liked to stare at while she talked. She had masses of wavy hair the color of black coffee that she wore pinned up like a Greek goddess.<p>

She was basically the coolest person Santana knew. Well, not cool—she wasn't cool at all. But she was exotically beautiful and very smart, so Santana couldn't help but be drawn to her. Santana liked everything about her, from her elegant wrists to her loopy handwriting to her peanut butter smooth voice.

Not many of the other seventh graders liked Ms. Morah, though. She taught history and her tests were _really _hard. She expected everyone to be obedient and learn from her, which didn't seem unreasonable to Santana, but definitely got on the nerves of the class. Santana felt bad for the young, inexperienced teacher. She began to study diligently for Ms. Morah's tests, and after getting her fifth A-plus in a row, Santana felt comfortable enough that she began to arrive early and stay late to talk to her.

Ms. Morah was the first person who ever told Santana she was really smart. She was the first person who showed Santana how much fun learning could be. She was the first person who encouraged Santana to read books that weren't required because they were _so _much more interesting. Ms. Morah was Santana's second crush, because Brittany would always be her first.

By the time Thanksgiving break rolled around, Santana was Ms. Morah's star pupil. Hers was the only class Santana sat in the front row for, and the only class she tried to answer questions in. Ms. Morah adored her—Tiffany called Santana out on it, told her she was a teacher's pet, but Santana just shrugged and mentioned Mr. Asher's luxurious hair and Tiffany shut right up.

Santana was always the last to leave Ms. Morah's class too, even if it made her miss her bus and she had to walk home. She would stay late to help her stack up all the chairs and wipe down the whiteboard. They would race to see who could finish her half of the whiteboard first and then they would talk about that day's lesson. Ms. Morah always had really rad books and movies to recommend and Santana gobbled them up like cupcakes from a box.

By Winter Break, Santana was utterly enamored. Anything Ms. Morah did, Santana wanted to do. She tried to wear her hair in a fluffy bun and use big words to sound more important. She could have sworn that the room grew ten degrees warmer when Ms. Morah called her 'mini-me.'

On the last day before Winter Break, Santana snuck a gift bag into class. She wasn't one of those kids whose parents bought gifts for all the teachers—no, Santana had to steal forty dollars from her dad's wallet for Ms. Morah's presents. She had gotten her a big candle that smelled like honey and roses, a dark chocolate Hershey's bar because it looked the fanciest, and a hardcover book of Ancient Greek poetry that Ms. Morah told her she had been looking for.

"Happy holidays, Ms. Morah," Santana peeped when she came to visit after school, holding the bag aloft. Ms. Morah's eyes lit up like sparklers as she took the bag from Santana.

"Oh, _Santana,_" she breathed, peering into the bag. She pulled out the book and gasped, running her fingers over the gold plated letters. "You shouldn't have! Thank you!" And, even though she wasn't supposed to, she bent down and pulled Santana into a hug.

Santana's heart started hammering in her throat as Ms. Morah squeezed her shoulders. Ms. Morah's cheek was icy where it pressed against her own. She smelled like gingerbread cookies and wool sweaters. Santana never wanted to let go.

"Oh, here!" Ms. Morah jumped out of the embrace, leaving Santana's arms empty. "I got you something, too." She handed her a small box with a bow on it, which Santana opened eagerly. "I noticed you had a charm bracelet so I got you a little something for it. It's a crown because I know how much you liked learning about the Tudors."

Santana's face burned. She fingered the charm gently, then picked it up between her thumb and forefinger and spun it around. The red gemstones inset on the arches glittered in the harsh fluorescent lights of the classroom.

Santana felt kind of bad, because she and Brittany had matching bracelets and now Santana had one extra charm. Maybe she could just order her an extra one? Yeah. Her parents wouldn't notice if she stole a few twenties from their emergency cash drawer. Santana could get Brittany a matching charm; a crown with blue gems, like her eyes. Or pink, because pink was Brittany's favorite color this month.

"Thank you," Santana squeaked, her voice high and shaky. "It's so beautiful, wow."

Ms. Morah beamed and hugged her again. "I'm glad you like it. Have a good vacation, okay? Take a break from all that reading, or you'll know more than me!"

Santana giggled and curled the charm up in her fist, feeling the cross dig into the fleshy crook between her middle and ring finger. "Have a good vacation too, Ms. Morah."

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><p>Santana and Brittany spent their entire winter vacation together. They celebrated the Solstice with the Pierces. It was Santana's second Solstice celebration. All they really did was drink spiced punch, snack on sun-shaped lemon cookies, and light beeswax candles all around the house and yard. They had planned a bonfire, but when Mr. Pierce almost ignited the dry old evergreen in the backyard that plan was nixed.<p>

They spent Christmas Eve at Santana's house in a food coma from the feast Mrs. Lopez had ordered. Then everyone, even Mr., Mrs., and little Baby Pierce, trekked up to Abeula's house on Christmas Day, where they exchanged presents and hugs and got sick on candy canes and green and red sugar cookies.

Then for the last night of Hanukkah, the Pierces dragged Santana with them to the Berrys' annual Festival of Lights, Camera, Action because the Pierces liked celebrating things and Santana was pretty much part of their family. Santana and Brittany spent the entire party avoiding Rachel Berry by hiding under the desert table and gorging themselves on jelly doughnuts and chocolate coins and those weird hashbrown pancake things.

They spent New Years at Brittany's grandma's house. Grandma Pierce didn't believe in central heating, so Santana and Brittany huddled together under a blanket fort in the corner of the room. They made a nest out of all the blankets they could find and the curled around each other like newborn chipmunks. They held hands as they watched the ball drop through a threadbare section of the top blanket. When all the grownups were distracted by kissing and yelling "Happy New Years!" at each other, Brittany turned her head and pressed her lips against Santana's gaping ones. Brittany kept her lips there, slowly increasing the pressure until Santana's top lip was fitted between hers. She was softly tugging on Santana's lip when Mrs. Lopez lifted the top blanket to check on them. Santana fell backwards in her haste to get away from Brittany's apple-juice-flavored lips.

But however fun her two-week-long playdate with Brittany was, Santana was super excited to go back to school in January. Getting ready for the first day back felt like her birthday. Her stomach was fluttering like she had swallowed Mexican jumping beans. She brushed her hair out until it gleamed and she wore her favorite red and white shirt, the one with hearts and puffed sleeves. She planned to go to Ms. Morah's classroom as soon as she got there.

And for three weeks, everything was great. She and Ms. Morah fell into a comfortable rhythm of cleaning up the classroom and talking about history. They got to talking about TV shows, too, and Santana found herself watching awesome shows, like _Buffy _and _Xena_, which she never would have discovered by herself.

She also started having really funny dreams—dreams about Ms. Morah. They were those muddled dreams where only a few seconds were clear when she woke up. But those few seconds... Santana woke up from them drenched in cold sweat, feeling like someone just punched her lower stomach. She could remember little snippets of her dreams—Ms. Morah running her fingers through her hair, Ms. Morah telling her how smart she is, Ms. Morah telling her what a gorgeous young woman she was turning out to be, Ms. Morah hugging her... it was enough to make every smile Ms. Morah flashed at her in class jolt through Santana like a switch.

One Saturday Brittany and Santana were at the mall when Santana glimpsed a woman with long, wavy, coffee-colored hair entering a jewelry store. She took off running, leaving Brittany sitting at their table with a half-eaten chocolate-strawberry ice cream.

"Ms. Morah!" she yelled, skidding to a halt in front of her teacher. The lighting in the jewelry store was low and muted; the air was humid and stuffy and all the sparkling gemstones in the magnifying cases hurt Santana's eyes.

"Santana!" Ms. Morah grinned, spinning to face Santana. She tucked a strand of hair behind Santana's ear that had gotten loose from her ponytail. "How are you, sweetie?"

"Great! What are you doing here?"

Ms. Morah blushed, her ivory skin turning the color of Brittany's cat's salmon flavored food. "My boyfriend—_fiancée—_proposed last night! Can you _believe _it? We're here to pick out rings. You'll come to my wedding, right?"

Santana's joy at seeing Ms. Morah came crashing to a halt. Her chest started to burn. Ms. Morah had a _boyfriend_? They were getting _married_? But... she...

"Kare, who's this?" A slim, dark man wearing a plum colored fedora walked towards them. "One of your students?"

"Yes!" Ms. Morah turned to the man, her eyes sparkling. "_This_ is Santana, honey."

"_This _is the famous Santana? Kare's told me so much about you." The man squatted down so he was eye level with her. "My name is Niko. I'm Karen's—I mean, Ms. Morah's—fiancée."

The normally stoic Ms. Morah squeaked a little bit and bent over to kiss Niko's cheek. "I'm just so excited, Santana! I know it seems so far away for you, but when you're getting married you'll understand how _incredible_ this is!"

Santana's heart sank. Her face turned gray and stormy. Getting married seemed so... so... _domestic_. Unnecessary. What was it, just another piece of bling and a paper saying two people have to love each other forever? The whole thing was ridiculous, sappy, and _gross_.

"That's... great," Santana said through gritted teeth. "I'm happy for you, Ms. Morah."

Brittany ran up to them then, standing shoulder to shoulder with Santana. She slipped her dry hand into Santana's clammy one, which Santana shook out before linking their pinkies because big girls didn't hold hands in public.

"Hello, Brittany," Ms. Morah smiled down at her like she was a cute baby or a puppy or something, not a twelve-year-old. "I didn't realize you and Santana were friends, that's so nice. This is my fiancée—that means he's my _almost_-husband—Niko. Niko, honey, this is Brittany, another one of my students."

If there's one thing Santana couldn't stand, it was grownups talking to Brittany like she was a first-grader instead of a seventh-grader. And she was angry at stupid Ms. Morah for having a fiancée anyway, so she didn't feel too bad for snapping:

"She knows what a _fiancée _is, she's not _stupid_. We're going now, goodbye. Enjoy your stinky husband."

She tugged Brittany after her, leaving a shocked Ms. Morah and Niko behind her.

"I _swear_ she's usually the most well-behaved student. I've never seen her act like that!"

Santana felt guilt gnaw at her stomach for being so rude to someone she was so fond of, but then she remembered that Ms. Morah was getting _married _and the bad feeling went away. It was replaced by a raging anger that only settled in the pit of her stomach when they were back at Brittany's house and Brittany asked if she could give her kisses to make her feel better.

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><p>Santana stopped hanging out with Ms. Morah after school. She stopped trying to do well in her class; she drifted towards the back and read sappy romance novels during Ms. Morah's entire lecture. She still liked to learn about history, though, so she didn't stop that. She liked history because it made her feel better about her own life. Reading about pain and suffering and hunger and hatred against other people made her own problems seem really insignificant.<p>

Santana stopped having funny dreams about Ms. Morah, too, which was a welcome relief.

One day, around Spring Break, Ms. Morah asked her to stay late so they could talk. Santana considered ignoring her and walking out with the rest of the kids, but she didn't want to get in more trouble than she already was. Plus, her parents would get called, and the less time she had to spend with them, the better.

"Santana," Ms. Morah smiled sadly at her. "Sit down, please." She slid into the seat in front of her, facing backwards and leaning over the back of the chair so she cold rest her elbows on Santana's desk. Santana obeyed silently, dropping her bag with a thud by her feet. She refused to meet Ms. Morah's gaze.

"Is everything okay?" Ms. Morah's eyes were wide and her forehead was all crinkly with concern.

"Whatever."

"You're worrying me, honey. Things are going fine at home, right? I know you mentioned things with your parents are strained. It's just that you used to be such a bright student, always excited to be here... now you sit in the back and you're failing all my tests. "

"My life is _fine_." Santana snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. "I just got bored of listening to a pathetic _middle school_ teacher trying to get me excited about learning about _dead _people."

Ms. Morah's face fell. "Oh... I didn't realize you felt that way. You may go now, Santana. Don't want to make you _bored _with my pathetic life." There's a hint of venom in her words that Santana had never heard. It made her want to cry.

She ran out of the room, almost tripping over her sneakers.

A few days later, at another one of Tiffany's sleepovers, an 8th grader with bad breath and braces brought up her situation.

"Whatever happened to your teacher crush, Santana? You haven't mentioned how smart and beautiful and generous Ms. Morah is for a few weeks."

"What?" Santana sputtered, her heart beating double-time. Fear sunk down in her stomach like a rock in a lake. "You're kidding me, Stubbles. I don't have any—"

"Don't try to lie, Santana," Tiffany sneered. "We know all about your big lezzie crush on Ms. _Moron_."

"I _don't _have a... look, I just wanted to pass her class, okay? It's fucking hard."

"Language, Santana." Tiffany tutted. "Do you want softballs or golf clubs for your coming out present? Don't get a flattop, though: you have too much baby fat and short haircuts and chubby cheeks will make you look like a cone head."

Santana's vision went red and she crouched low in her beanbag chair to launch herself at the grinning girl.

"I make out with my science teacher," Brittany deadpanned, placing a hand on Santana's back to relax her. She began to massage her neck, and slowly, Santana's vision cleared. "He has a tongue ring and I bite it because I think it's a mint."

Santana turned to give her a look, because whoring herself out for grades isn't something Brittany would do, and Brittany's science teacher is female and about a hundred years old. Brittany was definitely putting on airs for her benefit. Brittany just grinned impishly, shrugged, and continued stroking the back of her neck.

Brittany was the best friend a girl can ask for. Santana began to purr as Brittany's hand caressed lower.

Santana knew she had to be more careful with how she talked about women. She couldn't let any weakness show, couldn't let anything like a stupid little teacher crush drag her down. Brittany wouldn't always be there to save her. She needed to be respected and feared, not ridiculed. Thank god this happened before next year, because she'd never live it down once she got to eighth grade.

* * *

><p>By the time Santana and Brittany were thirteen, their kisses had become more and more frequent—not like Santana was complaining, but at the same time, it was kind of weird. Wasn't it? She'd kissed so many other people but she always fell back to Brittany like her ratty old Dalmatian plushie. Brittany was familiar. Brittany was comfortable. And, unlike her stuffed animal, Brittany was a <em>hell <em>of a good kisser. Like, a _really_ good kisser.

But she knew it couldn't be more than that. She and Brittany didn't get boyfriends; they agreed it was because they're just too cool for _boys_. Having one would have taken away from the time they could spend together, right? But they could kiss other people because, like, they weren't dating each _other_ or anything.

Just like that sleepover two years ago, Santana came to the realization that she _couldn't _love Brittany. And she didn't. Like, love was too complex for kids, right? Real love, not just the sharing-crayons-and-sandwiches sappy middle school love; that couldn't happen when you were thirteen. And even though she and Brittany totally did stuff like that, they were just, like, super close. Best friends love each other, but they weren't _in _love with each other. She didn't like any of the boys in her school because they were all gross and scrawny. Once they got to high school she would fall in love with one of them for sure. She wouldn't marry him or anything, but they would have fun until she broke up with him—before graduation, but after prom.

And if she _love _loved Brittany, she wouldn't have a family anymore. Though her parents had never explicitly said they would disown her, it was kind of a given. She was expected to marry someone rich and semi-famous, not her best friend who was a _girl_. Santana's parents weren't the greatest but they were her _parents_. This was her _house. _She needed that. As much as she wished she was secretly adopted and could go live with her amazing birth parents in their massive penthouse apartment in New York or London or whatever, she knew that her parents were the only parents she had.

Her parents had never given her "the talk," thank god. They'd left that to Brittany's mom, who pretty much did everything with Santana. When Santana had needed a bra two years ago, Mrs. Pierce had been the one to drag her (and flat-chested Brittany) to the store for bras. Santana had gotten her first period at Brittany's house, and it had been Mrs. Pierce who had consoled her when she was sobbing about all the blood coming out of _you know where_. Mrs. Lopez had practically begged Mrs. Pierce to teach her daughter the facts of life, which Mrs. Pierce had happily done with the help of kinesthetic learning aids such as bananas, cow placenta, and anatomically correct sock puppets.

Trying to talk to her parents about her feelings would be a disaster, so Santana didn't even try. They didn't like to talk about feelings. They didn't like to talk about bad things. They didn't really like to talk to her at all, unless it was to criticize her or ask her if she could go to Brittany's house that night because they were having a grown-up party.

And her parents weren't accepting people. She could remember what had happened when she was watching a TV show with them a few weeks ago, a rare night that they were all together with nothing to do. The main characters on the show were undercover at a bar and then suddenly, two girls were kissing. Her mom had jumped to cover her eyes and her father flipped through the channels so fast they couldn't tell which channel he was changing to.

"Hey, I was watching that!" Santana protested, pulling her mom's hand off her eyes.

"No, you weren't," Mrs. Lopez snarled. "That was not appropriate for a girl your age."

"I..." Santana brought a pillow up to cover her burning face. What was she going to say? That she liked it? Did she? No. Maybe. Yes. She liked the three seconds of girls kissing more then she had liked any makeout scene before that.

Mr. Lopez growled. "I really wish early evening programming didn't _do _things like that... They throw that garbage in there to get guys excited, but I just want to watch some TV with my family and not have it turn into a _porno_."

Santana's heart dropped to her stomach from the hostility in her father's words.

"I'm going to bed," Santana announced. She teetered her way upstairs.

Yeah. Even if she _did _love Brittany in a girlfriend-way—which she totally didn't—she just couldn't. It was too risky; there was too much disapproval. And she _totally _didn't, so worrying about it was super pointless_._

Santana wasn't stupid. She'd seen _Mean Girls_, like, a thousand times. She liked to look up random things on her computer when she couldn't sleep, so early one morning she wound up Wikipedia-ing lesbianism. It was weird - whoever wrote the article seemed to think it was fine; that it wasn't gross; that it was normal. That acidic feeling in Santana's esophagus that had been burning since Tiffany's first sleepover finally settled down, like sand over a fire. It was normal, see? _Those _people could be happy, successful, and powerful. And if she was a—a _lesbian_, it was okay. She'd be okay. But she wasn't gay, not at all. Not even a minuscule bit. She was just curious about things like that, because homosexuality was morbidly fascinating, like genocide and Brittany's mom's earrings that were made out of dead birds.

After finishing the article, she decided to try Google. The results that popped up weren't as rosy as the article. She managed to get halfway down the page before she felt like she needed to throw up. Words like _hate crime,_ _outsiders in society, _and _h0t nude gurls _swam before her eyes. She tried downloading a file that she thought was titled Advice for Questioning Girls, but it turned out to be Questioning Girls, a bad porno. She watched the superficially tan, disgustingly thin, triple-D cup women grind against each other while a guy stroked himself on the bed next to them. Bile rose in Santana's throat. She clicked out of the video as fast as she could and deleted her browsing history with shaking fingers. Tears began to stream down her face even though she didn't know why she felt so overwhelmed. She crawled back into bed. Her tears wet her pillow and made the back of her clammy neck stick to it.

Santana released a shuddering breath. Her belly ached; she rested a hand on it, and it ached harder, just lower. She trailed her hand downward, then realized what she was doing and snapped her hand up her neck. The ache started to throb so she rolled over and curled up like a fetus, tucking her knees under her chin. That just made it worse, though; her thighs felt sticky and warm. Sitting up and hanging her head in shame, Santana made her way to the bathroom.

She cleaned the mess between her legs, crying out when the wad of toilet paper touched something sensitive. What was this? What was happening?

Looking in the mirror, she could see her face was flushed and her lips were swollen. Did she have a fever? She felt her forehead, which was damp and cool but otherwise normal. What was wrong with her? Why was her stomach so tender? No, it wasn't her stomach, it was her... _oh. _Was she turned_ on_? She rested her head between her hands. Tears squeezed out from behind her clenched eyelids. Could seeing two women grind against each other, moaning so falsely and shooting coy glances to the camera really have done this to her? Was it the way their... _no_. She was just young, that was all; young and inexperienced and easily turned on. It was her hormones, or something. Yeah, that was it! That was totally it. That video hadn't turned her on at all.

She made her way back to bed. She laid down under the heavy covers and tried to fall asleep, but the hissing of her skin made it impossible. But she could power through this, right? The tingling would go away soon.

Or not. Twenty minutes passed and Santana was still stiff with discomfort. With a choking, resigned sigh, she began to trail her fingers downward, under the band of her underwear. Her finger brushed something that made her gasp and arch her back, legs falling open like a clamp getting released. _Yes._

She began to stroke between her legs. Her fingers fumbled and slid over her skin. Something was building up; a pressure in her belly and chest and center was increasing. Her hips began to buck and then suddenly she was flying, trust over the edge of a cliff, the image of Brittany behind her eyes.

It felt like the time she and Brittany had gone to a water park. Brittany, with all her dancer's grace, had simply dove off the edge of the highest diving board. But Santana, who could count the number of times she'd swam on one hand, was stuck at the top, balancing poorly on the edge. She tried not to look down, tried not to feel the wind trying to push her off. The kids behind her started yowling at her to _move_, but she was petrified with fear.

Brittany stayed in the middle of the pool, treading water with her legs. She was waving her arms and yelling at Santana to just _jump_ already, because it was _super _fun and she would love it. So Santana jumped. Her heart stopped beating as she fell, but those few seconds were the best. She felt like she was flying, like she was free. And that scary, dizzying, skydiving feeling was what she had just felt now, alone in her room with her hand between her legs.

The ache had calmed for a moment but soon it started up again, twice as intense. Her fingers were sticking together. The room smelled astringent and animal. Santana began to cry in earnest; large, shuddering sobs that shook her bed. She shuffled back to her bathroom to wash up, shame settling over her shoulders. What had she just _done_? That wasn't... she couldn't have... _no_.

And why had she thought of Brittany before the room had started spinning? Was that normal? She tried to remember anything she knew about sex, which, now that she thought about it, wasn't much. Was picturing her best friend before that skydiving feeling normal? It had to be. What it meant if it wasn't was too much for Santana to deal with before four in the morning.

Santana cried herself to sleep that night. She cried herself to sleep a lot of nights after that. Something changed inside her; she felt like a valve with pressure building steadily behind it. She bottled up all her feelings until they erupted like a volcano. To stop herself from breaking down during the day, she turned her emotions off. She felt hollow and empty, but it was better than constantly being close to tears. Still, it was almost like she had too many emotions to contain, and at night when she was finally alone, everything hurt _so_ much more. It was a relief to break down before sleeping because it meant she could _feel _things again.

Santana thought her extra emotions would go away one day, like that time in forth grade she had wet the bed three nights in a row. Her body just needed to retrain itself or something, right?. But her tears didn't go away; they got work, like a scrape that wouldn't heal.

Her thoughts about Brittany didn't go away, either. She would get that rushing feeling between her legs and in her chest much more quickly if she allowed herself to think of Brittany. It terrified her, but once she started she couldn't stop. Brittany was _so _beautiful. Santana liked to picture her all dressed up for her dance recitals in form-fitting leotards and silk skirts with feathers and sequins. She liked to picture her in the green velvet dress from their holiday choir show, her hair in a loose bun. She liked to picture her in the morning after their sleepovers, her face squished up like a confused, grumpy kitten against the glare from her open window.

Santana liked to picture herself running her fingers through Brittany's pale, slippery hair. She would pretend she was massaging behind Brittany's ears until she would shudder into Santana's neck. Her most common daydream was of Brittany lying on top of her in bed, clinging to her waist and nuzzling her neck because she had had a nightmare. Their legs would intertwine and their bellies would press together. Santana could almost feel the fine downy hair by her ears getting dewy under Brittany's warm breath.

And those daydreams, however sensational they were, made sleepovers _really _awkward. Sleeping in bed next to Brittany but not being able to twine around her was a tangible hurt. Santana started crying at their weekly sleepovers because she just _wanted _Brittany so much, and that petrified her the most out of all her fears. Her insides felt like a battlefield, but any victory would have been Pyrrhic: too costly to be worth it.

The first few times Santana had gotten hysterical, Brittany had woken up, alarmed. She thought she had punched Santana in her sleep. But since Santana couldn't explain _why _she was crying and it began happening at _every_ sleepover, Brittany had stopped waking up all the way. She would just stir and fling an arm over Santana's waist when she heard her friend's muffled whimpers.

And then Santana would cry herself to sleep, trapped and utterly alone in her best friend's arms.

When she was alone, it wasn't any better. She would picture Brittany naked underneath her, holding her flush against her body with shaking hands. But then Santana would jolt back into real life as she started trembling. She would collapse back on her pillows, her fingers sticky and her head dizzy with shame. She felt like a mess. She _was _a mess.


	3. Caterpillar

By the time eighth grade was halfway finished, Santana and Brittany's make out sessions had gotten heavier. Like, way heavier. It started small: Brittany would slide her tongue over Santana's top lip until she parted her lips with a shudder; Santana would stroke the back of Brittany's neck until she would tilt her head back so Santana could lick her way up to her ear. She'd trail her lips up her jawbone, sucking at downy flesh right under the angle of her jaw. Then she'd kiss her way up to Brittany's ear. She'd suck on the lobe, then tongue behind it, before moving up to the dip shaped like half a conch shell. She'd flick her tongue into the delicate canal until Brittany pulled away with a strained gasp, turning her head to capture Santana's lips again.

Brittany was handsy when they kissed. Santana was constantly slapping curious fingers away from her thighs and breasts. "Just the back, Britt," she'd murmur, pulling Brittany's cool hands out from under her shirt. "Tangle your hands in my hair. Like that. _Yeah_." And Brittany would comply with a controlled grin against her face.

When Santana was desperate to get off she'd pull up porn on her phone. Touching herself had become second nature: with the pictures she could get herself off in under five minutes. Without the pictures, it took about ten, unless she was with Brittany. She wasn't so stupid as to masturbate when she was like,_ in bed_ with Brittany, but she could hardly keep her hands still when she'd use the bathroom in the middle of the night.

Actually, it was more common to find her masturbating in Brittany's bathroom than it was to find her knuckle-deep in her own bed. She was always at Brittany's house now. Santana's parents were getting divorced and Santana tried to spend as little time as she could with either of them. She felt like a burden to them, the supposed saving grace for their broken marriage that had failed miserably. She couldn't pick sides because she hated them both so, _so _much.

Both of her parents had moved and Santana hated both her new houses. Her dad was a workaholic and had moved to a fancy condo, but the metal-and-glass house felt just like his hugs—soulless and frigid. At least he was kind of rich, being a doctor and all. Money wasn't an issue at her dad's house, but what fun were her credit cards and Wii when there was no one happy to see her when she came home?

And it wasn't better with her mom. Her mom, who had to go to work again after fifteen years off the market, moved into her embittered sister's matchbox apartment in a rough area of town called Lima Heights Adjacent. Santana's mother was hardly ever home, but when she was, the house was a battleground. Santana became the scapegoat for both her mom and her _tía_; they hated each other but hated Santana more. They delighted in complaining about her; how she was too skinny, too sensitive, too thoughtful, too smart, too much like her father. They complained about money, about Mrs. Lopez having to work again, and about the fresh-off-the-raft immigrants who took all the good jobs from her. They complained about Santana's dad; about how money had changed him, about his unfaithfulness. Worst of all, they complained about how Santana had been a mistake.

One dreary night, Tía had pulled Santana close, her claws digging into Santana's forearms. Her breath was bitter and stale as she hissed that Santana's only chance at happiness would be to marry rich, so she wouldn't wind up like her mother: unhappy, alone, and broke with ninety-five pounds of black haired, black-eyed baggage that ruined her chances of achieving anything else in life.

Despite trying not to, Santana absorbed everything. She let her dad's empty house and her family's cruel words burrow into the pit of her stomach, settling down until it felt like it would tear her in two. School wasn't an escape for her—she was always on guard, always looking out for someone to tear down before someone else tore into her. The only time Santana felt light was when she was with Brittany. Brittany wrung her out like she was a sponge. Her worries bled onto Brittany's carpet as she poured herself into her best friend's embrace.

That's how they were lying one balmy spring evening. Santana was jackknifed against Brittany, clinging with frail arms and legs to her still figure. She smelled like Santana's favorite comfort smells: musk and strawberries and fresh-baked bread and the rosin from her dance studio. Santana was breathing into the crook of her shoulder while Brittany stared at the ceiling. She began to weave Santana a story about two kitten princesses, her eyes scanning the eggshell ceiling like it was a book. Santana hummed whenever Brittany would pause, though she wasn't really paying attention to her words. She just let the sounds wash over her like a cool wave. The way Brittany narrated was like a lullaby to Santana: a breathy, familiar, imperfect song.

"Hmm, that's nice, Britt-Britt." Santana snuggled further into Brittany's side, tucking her left ankle around Brittany's shin. "I likes it when we gets our storytelling on." Ever since her mom had moved to her new, seedy apartment, Santana had started talking like the kids in her neighborhood. She thought it made her seem tougher and scarier, which meant even less people trying to 'get all up in her grill.'

"You sound silly," Brittany teased, tickling Santana's neck. Santana squeaked and flipped off of her friend.

"Do not. I sound badass."

"You sound dumb. And that's coming from me."

Santana scowled. "You aren't _dumb_, Brittany! Stop _saying_ that already! And you don't have as much coolness as I do: I sound _incredibly_ badass!"

"I'm going to take a shower now." Brittany unfolded herself like a marionette, her eyes downcast.

Santana sighed and let her hand flop in the warm hollow where Brittany had been lying. The worse Santana's bark had got, the more demur Brittany had gotten. She said it was because she hated the way voices sounded when they were mean, but Santana knew it was because of the fights her parents used to have. A few years after Brittany's sister was _finally _able to come home—international adoptions took a _freaking _forever and it was _so _unfair—Mr. and Mrs. Pierce had become frustrated with each other. Mr. Pierce had lived in a hotel for two months and Brittany had fallen asleep to her mom's hysterical phone calls every night. All Brittany's bad habits had come back and she lost _everything:_ her homework, her lunch money, her shoes. Even though Brittany and Santana hadn't been _best_ friends yet, Brittany had slept over at her house every night she could. Mr. and Mrs. Pierce had eventually gone to couple's counseling and learned to work like the stupid fairytale family they were, but Brittany was still terrified of people becoming upset. It was weird that Santana and Brittany were such good friends, because Santana _thrived_ on conflict. But maybe it was because Brittany knew her best and could tell Santana secretly hated squabbles just as much as she did; they just reacted differently.

Santana heard the water turn on in Brittany's bathroom. She sighed again and rolled over to pluck a magazine from Brittany's nightstand. Her hand trailed down her stomach and she began to caress the sensitive skin under her belly. Santana had just gotten her hand under the waistband of her pants when she heard the water shut off in the other room. She snapped her hand up to the magazine and tried to calm the burning in her cheeks.

Brittany walked back in a few moments later, naked except for a yellow hand towel clutched to her soaking chest.

"I forgot my towel," she said sheepishly, creeping over to her desk to pick up the forgotten cloth. She shuffled her way back to the bathroom sideways, trying to shield as much of her body from Santana as she could, but the little flashes Santana could see made her pulse start to beat throughout her whole body. She tried—and failed—to ignore the pulsing in her chest and between her legs as she watched the smooth, firm skin of Brittany's thighs move back towards the bathroom. Santana's head started rushing as she watched beads of water trail their way down Brittany's sides, down the peak of her hips. Her stomach throbbed as Brittany's Venus dimples level out when she turned her back on Santana to slip behind the bathroom door. Santana shook herself and crossed her arms over her chest. She could feel her nipples through her shirt. Why did seeing Brittany do this to her? Santana let out a strangled groan and flopped back onto the bed.

Brittany scuttled back into her room a moment later, wrapped snuggly in the full-sized towel. She padded over to Santana with a hairbrush in her hand.

"Will you brush my hair?" She handed Santana the brush, flashing her a quick, embarrassed smile. "I like it when people do it for me."

Santana's face was expressionless as she scooted closer to Brittany's glistening back. She ran her fingers over her supple shoulders, catching and smearing the warm droplets of water with her trembling fingertips. "Sure, Britt. Do you have another towel? Your hair is soaked."

Brittany reached behind her to pass Santana the yellow hand towel from before. Santana fought the urge to bury her face in the fluffy material that had been pressed against Brittany's naked chest only a few moments ago. She toweled off Brittany's hair, which was the color of wet sand, before running her fingers through the clinging strands. Her hair felt funny when it was wet, all sleek and slippery like seaweed.

"You have horrible taste in magazines," Santana informed her as she ran the brush through Brittany's trimmed ends. "_National Geographic_? Really?"

Brittany shrugged. "I like it."

Santana grinned and worried apart a small, Velcro-like knot with her fingers. "I'm sorry for snapping at you before." As much as she hated apologizing to people, it never bothered her to say she was sorry to Brittany. It never felt right to let her friend keep hurting because of something she said, her pride be damned.

"I know."

"Do you want me to blow dry your hair?" Santana wound her fingers through Brittany's hair and tugged a little. "C'mon, you knows you wants it."

Brittany smiled and made her way over to her desk chair. Santana tried not to stare at her legs, but she kind of failed because Brittany turned around to wink at her. Santana's face burned and she shook her head to clear it. She trotted over to plug in Brittany's hair dryer. She turned it on and began to run it over Brittany's hair, which began to lighten and smooth out as Santana dried it. Unlike Santana's hair, which took a disgustingly long amount of time to blow dry, Brittany's hair was dry within ten minutes.

"There, all done!" Santana sang when she had finished, rubbing Brittany's silky head. And, because she could, she leaned down to blow a raspberry into the soft crook of Brittany's neck.

"Santana!" Brittany squeaked, jumping in her chair. "That tickles."

Santana cackled and did it again.

"Hey! S-stop!"

Santana laughed again and stuck her fingers in Brittany's armpits, wiggling them. Brittany squealed and tried to worm her way out of Santana's grasp. Her face and chest were flushed pink when she turned to face Santana after she had pulled her fingers out.

Brittany caught her breath and scrunched her face, launching herself at Santana and knocking them both onto her bed. They tussled for a minute until Brittany had Santana pinned to her quilt. She was still only wearing a towel and in their play, it had ridden down so Santana was staring directly at the tops of her breasts.

"Stop tickling me!" Brittany demanded, running her hands up and down Santana's sides. Santana was laughing so hard she started to choke. She brought her hand up to tickle the sensitive spot on Brittany's ribcage, but with a buck of her hips Santana's hand wound up under Brittany's towel, between her legs.

Their laughter stopped abruptly, like the silence after a gunshot. Santana couldn't breathe because her heartbeat had taken up her entire abdomen, thundering so fast she was frozen. Brittany was hot and downy underneath her towel. Santana's fingers itched to stroke the damp skin she found there. She couldn't, though. That was going too far. That wasn't just best friends touching, that was... _touching_ touching. She gazed up into Brittany's eyes, trying to find and answer there.

Brittany's eyes were wide and they glimmered with something animal Santana had never seen before.

"You can touch me," Brittany whispered. She opened her mouth and breathed hot against Santana's cheeks. "I want you to touch me, Santana."

The room started spinning and Santana let out a strangled gasp. "I can't," she shuddered. Her voice was clogged with emotions; it was anguished and apologetic and hungry.

Brittany touched her forehead to Santana's, widening her stance over her slim hips.

Santana's fingers began to move, stroking Brittany's delicate flesh. It felt like the inside of her cheek but stickier with a fiery, familiar fluid. She pulled her fingers downward through Brittany's folds, feeling the muscles trying to clench at her fingers as she found the wet dip between her legs. Brittany felt different than Santana had thought—not that Santana had spent much time thinking about what Brittany felt like, like, at all. Touching Brittany didn't feel like touching herself. She was burning hot and Santana could smell her, all rich and heady.

Brittany groaned and gently bucked her hips against Santana's hand. Santana felt her body grow warm. She could feel her pulse stuttering throughout her whole body, especially between her legs. She pressed her center against Brittany's in return.

Brittany was wetter now; Santana's fingers slid through her heat more easily. She trailed her fingers upward until she found the small patch she liked to caress the most when she touched herself. Brittany cried out again, full of yearning and bittersweet pleasure as Santana rubbed the area above her clit.

"More, Santana," Brittany breathed, rolling her hips again. "Inside. It feels so... _oh_." She shuddered and fell against Santana, her hips rolling double time.

Shit. Santana was _touching_ her. Touching _Brittany_. No. No, she couldn't. This couldn't be happening. They were best friends, not... She _wasn't_... this was... this _wasn't_... she _couldn't_...

She pulled her fingers away from Brittany with a gluey _pop_, wiping them on the towel over Brittany's back. The towel had ridden down more; Brittany's nipples were hard against Santana's neck.

"I can't do this," she croaked into Brittany's silky hair. "This isn't... this is _sex_, Brittany. And I can't do it." _Not with you. I want it too much. I want to make you feel the way you make me feel when I think of you but I can't. I can't._

Brittany cried out against Santana's neck, her breath and face hot and sticky. She worked her lips over the velvety skin under Santana's ear, breathing out words like _please_ and _more_ and _why_.

Santana felt a prickling pressure behind her eyes. She wanted to cry. She wanted to touch herself. She wanted to touch _Brittany_. But she couldn't. She shoved her off with a grunt.

"Put your clothes on, Brittany." Her voice shook and she pushed her again, almost off the bed.

"Why?" Brittany's face fell and she gripped her floral blanket, the sacred one that had belonged to her grandmother. "It felt super good. It's okay, Santana."

"No! It's not!" Santana flipped over and buried her face into Brittany's butterfly pillow. The sequins dug into the slope between her cheeks and nose. "It's not okay!"

Brittany clucked and reached out a slender arm out to spoon Santana from behind. Santana could feel her naked breasts press up against her back.

"Get off me!" She gasped, falling off of Brittany's bed with a heavy _whump_. "Put some clothes on, _jeez_!"

Brittany frowned and slid down the side of her bed. She retied her towel around her chest before kneeling in front of Santana on the linty carpet. She cupped her cheeks in her hands.

"Santana." Came the tender whisper. "Look at me."

Santana allowed Brittany to tilt her head up so she could gaze into her eyes. She loved Brittany's eyes. They were so full of life and a true blue, not slate gray like so many blue-eyed-wannabes. They were quirked at the ends like cat eyes, which Santana knew Brittany loved because she thought it made her catlike—cunning and graceful and independent and smart.

"C'mon Santana, look harder," Brittany whispered, pulling Santana's face closer until she could see her pale eyelashes and the few stray eyebrow hairs that needed to be plucked. She flickered her eyes between Brittany's, staring first at the left and then the right because her gaze was too intense to stare at head on. Santana could see love and affection there, so much that her eyes were glassy with feelings.

Brittany moved Santana's head closer, tilting her head to the side so she could brush their lips together.

"Look at me and say you don't want me," she mumbled against Santana's lips, flitting her hands down to grab Santana's sleep shirt and pull her closer still. Santana closed her eyes against the pressure in her chest. It felt like a bag of pebbles was resting against her ribcage, threatening to tumble out and clatter against the floor. A lump that felt like a vitamin lodged itself in her throat, dissolving with a crinkle that made Santana open her mouth against Brittany's. "Please, Santana?"

Santana swallowed, the lump renewing itself. "I..."

"Don't think, just _feel_."

_I want you._

Santana closed her eyes and rested her forehead against Brittany's, drawing comfort from her closeness.

"W-will things be weird after?" Santana squeaked, fumbling blindly until her hands found Brittany's. "I can't lose you."_ I love you too much._

"It'll only be weird if you make it weird," Brittany purred. "I've wanted this for a long time. I love you so much, Santana. It's just another way of showing it. But more intense. Like the good kind of vanilla ice cream, the kind with the black flecks."

Santana pulled her lip between her teeth. "Then... can I kiss you?"

Brittany beamed, bouncing a little in excitement.

Santana rocked forward and pressed her lips against Brittany's. Their teeth knocked glassily together a few times before they found a comfortable position, pressed knee-to-knee. They pecked each other's lips, soft wet little closed-mouth kisses that tingled all the way to Santana's heart.

Then Brittany fitted Santana's bottom lip between her own, kissing the inside. Santana opened her mouth and Brittany nudged her top lip against Santana's so she could touch their tongues together. Something zapped down Santana's spine, making her toes curl.

"Can I take off your shirt?" Brittany whispered, tugging at the hem. Santana froze. A deluge of thoughts stormed against her, all jumbled up like a marching band where each person banged out whatever they wanted as loud as they could until they were all deaf.

"Shhh," Brittany comforted, running her fingers through Santana's hair. "Tell me if you feel uncomfortable."

She pulled Santana to a standing position and peeled the faded shirt away from her stomach. She pulled it over her head and ran her fingers soothingly over the skin of Santana's belly. She pulled her closer to unclasp her bra, leaving a wet kiss at the base of Santana's ear.

"Your pants too?" Brittany whispered, nudging Santana's nose with her own. Santana nodded and Brittany tugged them down over her hips and knees. Santana braced her hands on Brittany's bare shoulders and stepped out of her shorts.

"Your underwear?" Santana froze, digging into Brittany's shoulders with her nonexistent nails.

"Just give me a minute." She bowed her head and took a few deep breaths before lifting her head to stare into Brittany's eyes. They glimmered with excitement in the dusky light.

After a few moments of breathing, she nodded. Brittany beamed and slipped her hands into the sides of Santana's underwear. She pulled it down her legs, nuzzling Santana's thighs as they were bared. Brittany's cool hair on her upper thighs made Santana quiver as she stepped out of her underwear.

She was truly trembling now, standing naked in front of Brittany. _Naked_. In front of _Brittany_. She should have felt ashamed to be in such an intimate position, but the reverence in Brittany's gaze shooed any demons away. Brittany's eyes were soft as she stood and held Santana's hands, running her thumbs over the squishy web between Santana's thumb and forefinger.

"No weirdness, remember?"

Santana nodded again, a fearful giggle tearing from her throat.

Brittany looked dubious. "Do you want to stop?"

Santana shook her head, clutching Brittany's hands harder. The lump in her throat was bubbling so hard she couldn't speak.

"Do you want to get in bed now?" Brittany started to lead her to the bed, but Santana shook her head.

"N-no, take off your towel first."

Brittany smiled and shook her hands out of Santana's. She pushed the towel off her hips, delicately stepping out of it when it slumped to the floor. Then she opened her arms for Santana to fall into. She did, gladly, enjoying the warmth of Brittany's bare skin against her own. Her smell overwhelmed Santana now, the same musk and sweetness from before but a hundred times stronger. Everywhere their skin touched felt like little electric sparks were jumping between them. It made them shiver and press even closer together. Brittany wrapped her leg around Santana's, which made her center and belly shift closer. Santana could feel her pressed into the skin under her bellybutton, hot and sticky and velvety in ways she never could have dreamed.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, pulled together, just exploring each other's skin with gentle fingertips.

"Bed now?" Brittany asked, nudging Santana's hip with her own. Santana peeped a shaky _yeah_ and allowed Brittany to lead her to the center of her mattress. Brittany knelt next to Santana's head and tossed her collection of decorative pillows to the ground before tugging her quilt out from under Santana. She folded it neatly at the end of her bed before kicking the sheet to the end of the bed, too. Then she tucked her plain, smooth sleep pillow under Santana's head. The cool material kissed the back of Santana's neck. Santana just lay there, sprawled on her back, watching her. She felt soft and delicate in a way she rarely felt, sinking in to Brittany's timeworn sheets.

Brittany opened her mouth to ask Santana something, but Santana beat her to it. "Lie on top of me?" Her voice was weak and quivery. She coughed deep in her chest to clear her throat. Brittany smiled and threw her leg over Santana's hips, settling down against her slowly. She pressed their bellies together, then adjusted her breasts so they were pressed together too, before landing a kiss against Santana's gaping lips.

They arched their backs into each other, pressing further, the heat from their bodies making them hum. Santana's hands fluttered to Brittany's sides, trailing lightly over her clammy flesh. Brittany squirmed.

"Eep, tickles!"

Santana threw her hands in the air. "Sorry!"

Brittany nuzzled their noses together. "It's okay, just do it harder."

Santana shifted under Brittany's weight, resting her hands awkwardly on her hips.

"I don't know what to do," Brittany admitted after neither of them moved for a few moments. "I've never..."

"Me neither," Santana bit her lip. She thought about the videos she'd seen: long limbs all tanged and fake moans of pleasure filling the air. But the positions seemed just as unnatural as the women themselves; she didn't want to do something like that with Brittany.

"Maybe I should get off of you now?" Brittany asked, sitting up a bit. Santana nodded, biting her lip and turning her head so she couldn't meet Brittany's eyes. This was awkward. The longer they waited, the more regret Santana felt. What were they _thinking_?

But Brittany shooed her worries away by pressing an openmouthed kiss to Santana's cheek. She brushed a matted-down curl away from her face, then turned Santana's head so she could kiss her full on the mouth, showing her that she loved her better than her stumbling words could.

Brittany rolled off of her a few seconds later, hovering as she waited for Santana to move. The cool air from the room brushed over Santana, chilling her. She rolled onto her side and patted the space next to her for Brittany. She settled, staring adoringly into Santana's eyes, reaching out to cup her face. Santana nuzzled into Brittany's hand, her eyes fluttering closed. Then she cracked them open to look—truly look—at Brittany. Her eyes traced the dimple on her bottom lip that mirrored the one above her top lip, then the almost invisible freckles dotting her cheeks. They would be more obvious in a few months, when the sun kissed them darker.

When Santana met Brittany's eyes, her whole face lit up into a smile. It was a smile that said more than just happiness: it was eager and excited and a little bit nervous, too.

Santana scooted closer so she could kiss Brittany again.

"Here, rest your leg over my hip," Brittany said before Santana's lips could reach hers. She tugged at Santana's top thigh, moving it so it rested over her hip. Santana shivered against the open feeling between her legs. The fear which had almost dissipated moments ago slung back into her throat.

"Can I..?" Brittany asked, her fingers poised over Santana's belly, ticking her. Santana shook her head.

"No, move your leg like... yeah. I wanna touch you too." Santana felt weird admitting her need; her eyes flickered between Brittany's to see if she could catch any fear in there. Brittany's eyes were staring down at their hands, a small, pleased smile gracing her face. She opened her legs so she was available for Santana's curious touch.

"I like this," she said. "I like this a lot. I feel all fluttery—_oh, Santana_."

Santana had nudged her fingers down Brittany's belly, toward her center. Brittany mirrored her, sending tingles all over Santana's body. She giggled as Brittany's hand caressed the strip of skin between her hipbones. Brittany returned her giggle and they shyly met each other's eyes. The love and trust was overwhelming now. The lump returned to Santana's throat, choking her. Her eyes watered and Brittany frowned.

"Don't cry, Santana." She kissed her eyelids, gathering the moisture on her bottom lip. "You're okay, you're okay."

"Y-yeah," Santana chuckled thickly, sniffing. She trailed her hand further down, caressing Brittany's mound. Brittany gasped and pressed herself closer to Santana. She let her fingers trail through Santana's wetness, rubbing the sides tenderly. The touch made Santana's head reel. Brittany rubbed harder; Santana copied her. Brittany closed her eyes and moaned.

"Santana..." Her breath hitched. "M-more."

Santana let her fingers trail further down, towards Brittany's entrance. "Like this?"

"Y-yeah. Inside please."

Santana closed her eyes as she let two fingers slip up between Brittany's legs, up inside her. She was soft and wet and folded. Santana could feel her clenching against her fingers, drawing her closer. She pulled her fingers out slowly, making sure to stroke Brittany just the way Santana liked when she touched herself. Brittany shuddered and rippled, panting hot against Santana's neck. Her fingers had stilled and were lying wetly against Santana's inner thigh.

"C-can I?" She quivered, moving her fingers against Santana again.

"Yeah," Santana breathed, widening her stance. Brittany trailed her fingers through her wetness again, before gently entering her with two fingers. It felt nothing like her own fingers. Santana arched her back against Brittany, drawing her further inside. She began to move her own fingers inside Brittany again. They tried to find a rhythm for a few moments, giggling over their failure. And then they hit one, suddenly, speeding up until they were both on the cusp of something huge.

"M-more, Santana," Brittany begged, bucking her hips against Santana's wrist. Santana pressed her thumb lightly against the hood of her clit, drawing light circles over it. She curled her fingers inside and then Brittany clenched down the hardest yet, falling over the edge with a strangled gasp.

Brittany's fingers had stilled for a moment before they began to move again, pulling Santana further in. Santana's stomach began to coil, winding up on itself. She was wavering on that familiar line, waiting for that—oh. Oh. _Oh._

Santana bucked against Brittany's wrist, whining low in her throat. Her orgasm had taken her by surprise and the uncontrolled way she convulsed frightened her. She had had many orgasms before—countless orgasms—but they had never made her feel like _this_. The pleasure she felt at Brittany's hand made her solo masturbations inadequate. _This_ was the skydiving feeling. _This_ was what most people could only dream of.

But it was too good to last. Santana began to sob as soon as she could breathe again, like something had broken inside of her. She shook against Brittany, so overwhelmed she couldn't calm down. There were too many thoughts, too many feelings, too much...

"Shhhh, Santana. Don't cry," Brittany whimpered, pulling her against her. "Tell me what's wrong."

_I just had sex with you. We just had sex. I lost my virginity to you. I've never felt more connected to anyone than I did just now. You made me come. That was magical; that's what it's supposed to feel like with anyone but you. And now I feel guilty and sick and excited and tender and loved and beautiful and really, really scared._

"I'm _sticky_," Santana whined, clutching Brittany closer.

Brittany nodded and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Why don't we go clean up? Then we can put our pajamas back on. Don't cry, it's really not that big a deal. I don't like when you cry..." Something in Brittany's voice told Santana that she really knew what she was trying to say. It made Santana want to cry harder, knowing how much Brittany cared for her.

Santana collected herself, pulling at Brittany's hand when she wanted to get up. They untangled and crept toward the bathroom—after what they'd done, any noise would break them. Santana headed for the sink. She splashed some cold water on her flushed face while Brittany stroked her back. She was holding a hand towel and when Santana stepped aside, she ran it under the tap. Then she wrung it out and stuck her hand in the middle, resting it against Santana's bare stomach. She jumped a little from the temperature but allowed Brittany to carefully clean her. Once she was finished, Santana smiled gratefully at Brittany and reached for the washcloth so she could return the favor. She wet the other side, wrung it out, and pressed it against the crest of Brittany's hip. She dragged it down the furrow towards her center.

Something caught in Santana's throat as she watched Brittany wring the towel out a final time. She hung it on the shower curtain and extended her hand toward Santana, who grasped it thankfully.

"Are you feeling better?" Brittany asked, taking a tentative step forward and brushing Santana's damp hair away from her forehead. Santana sucked on her bottom lip and nodded, still too emotional to say anything. Brittany tucked a lock of hair behind Santana's ear and she let her hand linger there, cupping her cheek. Santana closed her eyes and leaned into it.

They stayed like that for a few moments before the draft made gooseflesh prickle over Santana's skin. She reached up to tug Brittany's hand into her own.

"Bed now?" She asked, swinging Brittany's hand between them. Brittany nodded and Santana led her to the bed. Brittany bent over to pick up Santana's discarded pajamas, but Santana stopped her with a quiet:

"C-can we just go to bed like this?"

Brittany looked up at her, her eyes shining. "Definitely."

Santana tucked herself into Brittany's bed, the cool sheets caressing her bare skin. Brittany shook out her quilt and spread it tenderly over Santana before climbing in next to her. They settled into one of their familiar positions—Brittany lying on her back with Santana resting half on top of her. It took a few moments longer for them to get comfortable; their absent clothes made everything feel much so more concentrated.

"Hey, Santana?" Brittany whispered after Santana let out a contented sigh against her collarbone.

"Yes, Britt-Britt?"

"Just wanted to let you know there's no one I'd rather be sticky with than you. I really liked that."

Santana let out a shaky laugh, pulling Brittany's arm more securely over her shoulder. "Me too, Brittany." _I love you._

She'd deal with everything tomorrow. Brittany's warmth was lulling her into a sweet sleep and she was too drunk on Brittany's warmth and smell—sweat and flowers and something rich that tickled her nose—to move.

* * *

><p>Things were weird with Brittany for a few days after their <em>experience<em>. Santana refused to call it anything but an _experience_; she refused to let herself admit she had had _lesbian _sex with her best friend. Whenever the steamy memory would pop up, she just buried it in the dark part of her brain with all the other bad things in her life. It made the pressure inside—the same pressure that made her shut down and break down—worse. She couldn't remember the last night she hadn't cried herself to sleep.

She was angry with Brittany. She was angry with herself. Or maybe she was just angry. But it didn't really matter if she was furious at someone or not—what mattered was that she couldn't be in the same room as Brittany without feeling her slick flesh against her fingertips and the smell of her thick in the air.

Finally, after a few days of silent treatment, Brittany approached her in the locker room after cheerleading practice. She moved like a birdwatcher trying not to spook her subject. Santana felt a chill wash over her, and it wasn't just because she was changing in an almost-empty metal room.

"Santana?" Brittany quivered, taking a tentative step forward. "Why are you still angry with me?"

"I'm not angry." Santana snarled, her words sharp and bitter on her tongue.

"Yes, you are. I'm sorry you didn't like what happened."

Santana felt a sob wedge itself in her throat like a gumball. "That's not what..."

"But..." Brittany sat down delicately and grabbed Santana's wadded up shirt to tuck under her chin. Santana snatched it back out of her hands. "If you'd liked it why did you—"

"Is there a reason you're here?" Santana snapped. "I'm half naked and this is creeping me out." She clutched the shirt to her chest.

Brittany fiddled with her cuticles. "I wanted to know if you wanted to come to my house tonight. Mom is making apricot chicken and I know it's your favorite. And I know that you're at your dad's house this week and the only food he has is wheat germ. And that's just gross."

Santana popped her lips to avoid saying anything. How could Brittany make her feel so loved and so lonely in the same sentence?

And it wasn't like they were going to _do_ anything, right? She'd promised Brittany nothing would change. She'd be _fine_.

"Sure. I'm never one to pass up dinner at your house. Is your dad picking you up now?"

Brittany's face split into a huge grin and she launched herself at the still-topless Santana. Santana felt heat rush up to her face as Brittany squeezed her close. _Shit_. This wasn't going to end well.

* * *

><p>The girls curled up together under Brittany's purple pomegranate duvet after dinner.<p>

"I like this blanket the best," Santana whispered, tracing the translucent material overhead with her fingertips.

"I like all my blankets." Brittany began to stroke Santana's hair. "I like to change them every morning so none of the others get jealous."

Santana gasped as Brittany's fingertips found their way to the back of her neck. Her curious fingers were followed by dainty lips. Santana let out a shuddering gasp. _Not again_. She began to throb.

Brittany pulled away for a moment to throw off the blanket. Then she scooted until she was lying half on top of Santana, pressed flush against her. Her eyes were glassy and dark like aquamarines.

"Let me give you Sweet Lady Kisses," she mumbled against her lips, her breath as sweet as the honeydew sorbet they'd had for dessert.

"W-what are those?" Santana's voice shook. She placed her hands on Brittany's back, but she wasn't sure whether it was to pull her closer or throw her off.

Brittany simpered and pressed her lips against Santana's. "Like that. They're the kisses we give each other. They're secret kisses. Like sweet, fairy kisses."

Santana opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out. Brittany stared at her for a moment, her expression tender, before she pulled Santana closer. She kissed her, nudging Santana's top lip open with her own. Santana parted her lips, flicking her tongue to brush Brittany's top lip. It was slightly chapped and Santana had to lick it again so it was wet enough for her to slide against. This made Brittany laugh silently against her, opening her mouth so she could touch the tip of her tongue to Santana's. She was hot and wet and tasted kind of stale because they had eaten dinner a while ago. But Santana liked the taste: she tasted like _Brittany_, like chewed gum and juice instead of whatever she had eaten.

Santana nuzzled her nose against Brittany's in an unrepressed show of sweetness. She licked her tongue, dipping to tickle the sensitive, squishy part under it.

Santana's hands began to wander, starting at the crown of Brittany's head and flitting their way down to her cheeks and neck. Santana let her hands trail over Brittany's form; down the S curve of her back and up again to the sides of her clothed breasts. They were soft and supple and they made Brittany gasp when Santana pressed harder.

She loved Brittany: she'd always loved Brittany. But they couldn't—they weren't _gay_, okay? Just because she didn't love Brittany like that—_ew_—didn't mean she didn't care about her. She cared _too_ much about her. She couldn't let them go on like this. During those cheerleader sleepovers where everyone gossiped about which boys were hot and which were decidedly _not_, Santana was silent. None of the boys were _that_ cute. Of course Santana had obviously lied and gushed over some hunky, imaginary boy from her history class, but it wasn't safe for her and Brittany to go on like this. They'd be ostracized; they'd be pariahs. Santana couldn't let that happen to them. Brittany deserved more than that.

"We need to go on a date."

Brittany pulled away from her with a wet slurp. Her eyes were guarded but cautiously hopeful. "What?" She breathed, resting her forehead on Santana's.

"...with guys." Santana turned her head so she couldn't meet Brittany's eyes. Why did everything she did to _help_ them make Brittany look so sad?

"Oh." Brittany slid away from her, hurt. She grabbed a sock elephant from the end of her bed and clutched it to her chest. "Why? What about... us?"

A pang beat through Santana's body like a brass gong. "Us?"

"We... the other night, Santana. Didn't we? Doesn't that mean we're dating? Tiffany always said—"

Another pang, this one much more concentrated. "No! We didn't do _that_. Tiffany is wrong, Britt: sex is _not_ dating. And what we're doing isn't... it's like giving each other massages, okay? It's just relieving tension!"

Brittany's eyes became glassier, but they were teary and heartbroken instead of lustful. "That's all it was to you?"

Santana reached out to grab a stuffed ferret. She squeezed it until all the grains inside had been parted and she was wringing it out like a washcloth. "People are starting to talk, Britt. Don't you want to be popular?"

Brittany looked confused at the sudden backtrack. "If you do? I want you to be happy."

Santana rubbed her eyes with the ferret to stop them from hurting. "Then we need to go on dates with guys."

"Do I have to?" Brittany started stroking her elephant's terrycloth ears. "I don't like any of them. I like yo—"

"Whatever. Please come? I want you there. We'll make them take us somewhere expensive. And we can have a sleepover afterward."

Brittany still looked troubled; she was chewing on her bottom lip and her forehead was creased.

"Shh," Santana murmured, dropping the ferret in her lap and scooting towards Brittany. She reached up to smooth her bottom lip out. "Don't do that, you'll rip it to shreds."_ I love you, Britt, but I don't know how to keep you safe at the same time._

* * *

><p>Santana didn't actually have to find a date because two days later Miles Smith approached her. Miles was the oldest eighth grader; his birthday was the day after the cutoff and he'd been held back the year he'd moved in with his infirm grandmother. He was lanky and angular with good intentions and a mature, lightly muscled body that was very handsome by middle school standards. He had fluffy, curly milk chocolate hair, cinnamon freckles, and the beginnings of a four-pack that the girls swooned over whenever he took his shirt off in gym class.<p>

"Hi Santana. Will you go on a date with me?" His voice squeaked like he had just inhaled a balloon. "You're the prettiest girl in our grade."

Santana felt her face pull into a grin. Her heart began to flutter. "Me?"

Miles gaped. "You... actually want to go with me?"

Santana nodded, still smiling. Miles smiled back tentatively. "Yeah. You're cute; the other guys aren't. And, like, we're in _eighth_ grade now. It's totally different. I think going out would be... fun."

Miles blushed, rubbing his hand over his arm. "Where do you want to go? Do you like Chinese food? There's this place I went to once. I forgot the name but I can look it up! And—"

Santana interrupted him. "Sounds great. Does Friday night work?" She quirked her eyebrow like the sexy ladies in her favorite movies.

Miles nodded, awestruck. He turned to walk away, a spring in his step.

Santana caught a flash of blonde hair down the corridor. Brittany. How would she tell her? She had always claimed they were too good for boys, and that they were gross. But now that Miles asked her, she couldn't say no. He _wanted_ her. Brittany would just have to deal, even though Santana knew it would hurt both of them.

But maybe Brittany could come? Yeah. Couples go on double dates all the time. It was totally normal.

"Wait!" She jogged to catch up with Miles. "I can't lets my biffle—you know Brittany, right?—be alone on Friday night. Can we make it a double date?"

Miles looked thoughtful. "Sure. My buddy Tommy just broke up with his girlfriend and he's feeling pretty down. He's a freshman and a football player at McKinley High. You're going there next year, right?"

"Mm-hmm. Thanks, Miles. It means a lot to us—to her." But Miles had already floated off.

* * *

><p>When Santana told Brittany about their double date, her eyes dulled like a piece of unglazed clay. She shrugged, dejected, and wandered off towards her next class. Santana yelled across the hall that she should come over beforehand so they could get ready together.<p>

On Friday, Brittany arrived at Santana's dad's condo at five, dressed in sweats with her hair wet.

"You can pretend I'm your Barbie if you want." She was expressionless. Santana felt guilt gnaw at her heart. She was hurting Brittany, but she couldn't back out now.

"That'll be fun," Santana said, running her fingers through Brittany's damp hair. She looked at their reflection in the mirror. "You're so pretty."

She poked Brittany's cheek and was rewarded with a tight, unhappy smile.

Santana curled Brittany's hair until she glowed. She dressed her in a tight, robin's egg blue dress that she had bought for her with her dad's money. She peppered small, damp kisses all over Brittany's neck and shoulders as she pulled her into the silky material. Then she did her makeup: not too much that she looked like she was trying too hard, but enough that she could pass for at least sixteen.

Brittany helped Santana get ready, too. She yanked and prodded and poked at Santana's hair until she was almost in tears because Santana's hair just "wasn't working." Santana had to rescue her and just do it herself before Brittany burned her fingers on the flat iron. She made some offhand comment about her stupid ethnic hair that made it difficult to style, which only made Brittany look closer to tears. "I don't like it when it's not working," she cried, "I want to make you look pretty!"

Finally, after some more tussling, Santana thought she looked acceptable. She asked Brittany to pick out her outfit, and Brittany emerged from her closet with a pair of dark jeans and a pink and violet tunic-style shirt that faded from one color to the other like a sunset. Brittany did Santana's makeup and Santana's breath caught in her throat when she leaned in close, eyebrow pencil in hand. She rested her pinky on Santana's cheek as she worked.

Santana pulled Brittany out into the dusk a few minutes before seven. They stood arm in arm on the sidewalk, gazing around at the darkening pink-and-orange sky.

"You look super pretty tonight, Brittany," Santana finally said, stroking Brittany's arm.

Brittany thanked her but it sounded like_ I'm sad because I don't really understand why we're doing this and I'd rather we could just go out to eat ourselves_ and it made that dissolving tablet feeling sling itself into Santana's throat again.

Miles' uncle pulled up in front of Santana's house before they had a chance to continue their strained conversation. The girls got in the back, huddling in a single seat next to their dates. Miles's friend Tommy was tall and broad and top heavy. He reminded Santana of an orangutan.

"You look hot," he leered at Brittany, leaning over Miles to whisper to her. Santana bristled: Brittany looked more than that. Brittany looked _beautiful_.

"You look nice, too," Miles grinned at Santana. She forced a smile back.

When they got to the restaurant and were seated, Brittany ordered chow yuk like in_ A Cricket in Times Square_ and Santana kept stealing bites from her plate because it was way more delicious than whatever miserable excuse for a salad Santana had ordered. Conversation trickled between the quartet and Santana found herself wishing that Miles and Tommy would just _go away_ already. At least she and Brittany could share the booth; Miles and Tommy sat across the table from them and it left the girls free to trail their hands over each other's thighs and knees. Santana was bored. Miles should have been a great date—he was sweet and funny and had made sure she sat down first before he did, but he didn't have that special _spark_ she thought he was supposed to have.

Tommy was kind of a scumbag, though. No, actually, he was a _huge_ scumbag. He kept trailing his socked foot up Brittany's leg, making her jump. Halfway through dinner she scooted closer to Santana until she was almost sitting on top of her, clinging to her shirtsleeves.

"Santana," she whispered into her ear. "Ask him to stop, please."

Santana glared. "Dude, not cool. Britts don't want your puny little ass. Whatever you're doing, stop it."

Tommy rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

Brittany smiled adoringly at Santana, relaxing into her side. Santana ignored her. Brittany began to stroke her hair, clearly bored with the conversation.

"You two are obsessed with each other," Tommy griped, rolling his eyes. "I'm your _date_. Talk to me."

Santana stiffened. Brittany did too, but only because Santana did first. She pulled away from her and leaned over the table to talk to Tommy, but there was no quirk, no sunshine in her voice anymore. Santana's heart felt heavy and she was glad she was sleeping over that night because she really hated to see Brittany unhappy. At least she'd get a chance to cheer her up after forcing her to go on this stupid date.

Santana made Miles' uncle drop them off at Brittany's house after their date, declining Miles' offer to go back to his house so they could all hang out. As they waited on the unlit porch for one of the Pierces to let them in, Brittany smiled at Santana for the first time all night. Fireflies flickered around them, illuminating little pockets of Brittany's body; a slim wrist, a delicate elbow, the graceful curve of her jaw, the nub on her shoulder. Santana's body was thrumming again, aching to touch her; to _show_ her how sorry she was.

Brittany beat her to it; she tackled Santana onto her bed once they were upstairs. She pawed at her sides, kissing her deeply. Santana shuddered as Brittany rolled against her like a wave. Their kisses were frenzied, hard: a release. Santana pulled Brittany against her harder, but she jolted back into reality when Brittany snaked a hand behind her to unclasp her bra. Santana sprung away, stuttering.

"I loves getting my mack on as much as you do, but this is going too far! I'm not going to... we just aren't going to do _that_ again, okay?" She crossed her arms over her chest, rubbing up and down her forearms to try to make the burning feeling go away.

Brittany frowned and glanced up at Santana. Her eyes were heartbroken. "Why?"

Brittany's simple question settled over Santana like a tidal wave had hit her. She stumbled backwards, struggling to breathe; she felt like she was trying to claw her way to the surface of a pool.

"We just... can't, Britt, okay? It's..."

Santana trailed off, fiddling with a stray slip of elastic from her underwear. She couldn't think of the right words to say.

Brittany sighed in exasperation and slid off the bed to put her pajamas on. She threw a pair at Santana and, after she had stripped out of her bra and underwear, tossed those at Santana, too. They landed on her face.

"Oops, I missed," she deadpanned, pulling on a pair of boxer shorts.

"Britt..." Santana warned, plucking the bra off of her face with her thumb and forefinger. "Your laundry basket is on the other side of the room."

Brittany sniffed. "I missed."

Santana fought a grin. Just because she couldn't let herself be with Brittany didn't mean she could let her go, either. She was still her best friend, hopefully forever, even though forever was stupid and cliché and never lasted—like her parents' marriage.

Santana picked up the pajamas and made her way to Brittany's bathroom to change, ignoring Brittany's dejected look. Santana knew if she saw the desperate need in Brittany's gaze as she stripped she would give in, so she just scuttled to the bathroom with Brittany's flannel pajamas clutched against her chest.

They slept on opposite sides of the bed that night: back to back, like an open oyster.

* * *

><p>When summer started and Santana still refused to talk about their "experience," Brittany started getting <em>really<em> obvious that she wanted _it_ to happen again.

Santana hoped that by ignoring her, she would give up before anything happened. But that didn't look likely; Brittany was stubborn when she set her mind to something.

"Come give me a kiss," she'd say when they were lounging by the pool.

"Does this thong make my butt look awesome?" she'd say when Santana was flipping through _Seventeen_ on her bed.

"I'm cold, Santana," she'd say, spreading her arms wide. That one was probably the most ridiculous—it was the middle of summer by then and Brittany was sweating through her boy shorts and camisole.

And that didn't even take into account the little nonverbal cues Brittany smothered Santana with. She was suddenly allergic to her clothes, she claimed. Oh, Santana just had something on her face that Brittany needed to kiss off. Brittany just wanted to see what her breast/ass/face felt like. It was driving Santana _insane_.

Finally, Santana reached a breaking point. Brittany had begun to stroke her cheeks with the pads of her fingers, claiming that Santana had chocolate on her face. But then her fingers were replaced by her lips, and they were kissing their way down to her lips. The feeling of Brittany's lips made Santana's belly clench.

"Enough already!" She cried, pulling away from Brittany. "There is _nothing_ on my face. We can't _do_ this! How many times do I have to _tell_ you?"

Brittany looked stricken. She flinched away from Santana, curling in on herself like a spiral shell. "But you always..." Her face clenched from trying not to cry. "Whenever I get close to you... I hear your heartbeat, Santana, and I can smell—"

"People just react to things like that, Brittany. You're so stupid sometimes, I can't even." She turned away like she was disgusted with her, though she watched her reaction out of the corner of her eye.

Brittany flinched again, curling further in on herself. Tears sprang from her surprised eyes before she could stop them. Her face became blotchy, red with shame and broken trust.

Santana felt close to tears herself. She'd _never_ called Brittany stupid. She wanted to apologize. She _did_ want Brittany. And she knew Brittany was the farthest thing from _stupid_. But Santana couldn't get the apology off her tongue. And she was hurt, too. Brittany kept teasing her, taunting her, making her ache like she was some fucking temptress. It wasn't _fair_.

"What's going on?" Mrs. Pierce said, sticking her head through the doorframe. "I heard yelling."

Santana started, whipping her head to look at Brittany, who had been in tears only a moment ago. But now she just rubbed her eyes with her closed fists and said:

"Nothing, Mom. You must be hallucinogen-ating again."

Mrs. Pierce sent Santana a worried look but left when the wide-eyed girl wouldn't meet her eye. Santana collapsed back on Brittany's sand-colored duvet, curling herself around Brittany's hunched back like a question mark. She stuck her nose behind Brittany's head, shaking her head so Brittany's silky strands brushed over her face. She inhaled deep into her hair.

Brittany lay immobile in Santana's embrace, just as unresponsive a glass ballerina.

"Your mom scares me," Santana admitted, bunching the fabric of Brittany's t-shirt in her fingers. She waited, but Brittany was still eerily silent. She pulled the back of Brittany's shirt up and pressed her fingers against her skin. Brittany didn't even flinch, though Santana's hands felt icy against her skin.

Santana opened her mouth to apologize, but it got caught in her throat. So instead she whispered, "You can stop crying now."

Silence.

"Will you feel better if I give you a kiss?" Santana said, her voice surprisingly clear and strong, like when she sang. She was better with her hands and her body than her words. Words could only say so much; words could say things that weren't true. But the body never lied. And Brittany knew that because she told Santana everything she needed to know with her body, too.

Brittany nodded once and flipped over so she could look at Santana. She reached up—slowly, as if Santana would spook if she moved too fast—to cup Santana's cheek.

"W-wait. Only a kiss, okay? We aren't going to—"

Brittany shushed her by rubbing their noses together. Her eyelashes were dark and clumped together from her tears, like tiny paintbrushes. Santana looked at her, truly looked at her, and she felt like she was getting sucked in, like a spool of thread winding up. There was no way Santana could avoid her for any longer.

"Nothing more than a kiss," Brittany promised.

They had sex for the second time that night.


	4. Crawling

**Please be warned that there are some _minor _assault trigger warnings ahead. **

* * *

><p>By the time freshman year started, Santana was on top of the world. She was hot. Super hot. Even if her boobs <em>could<em> have been bigger and her hair was still a tangle of thick and poof, she was all right. She was more than all right: she was _smoking_ hot. And thanks to her hard work in middle school, she and Brittany were already popular.

She was going to join the cheerleading squad. Being one of Coach Sylvester's acclaimed Cheerios ensured success and awesomeness for life—or at least high school, which was basically the same thing.

On the first day of freshman year, Santana had to write a short paper on what she thought her favorite things about high school would be. A quick glance to her right revealed Brittany writing furiously with her glittering gel pen, and a quick glance to her left saw a paper with elegant loops that spelled words like _prom_ and _boyfriend_ and _beautiful_.

"This assignment is so _stupid_, isn't it?" Santana whispered. The girl, who had a delicate, statue-worthy face, looked up in surprise. Her eyes were a cool, cruel hazel that should have been warmer because of their color—much like Santana's black ones. Santana liked the clarity in this girl's gaze: she radiated confidence and drive.

"I think they just want us to get excited about the year," the girl whispered back. "And you haven't written anything yet. High school is going to be the best time of our lives."

Santana rolled her eyes and muttered "Yeah, sure," under her breath. She returned to her paper, chewing on the end of her pen. There were plenty of things she was looking forward to in high school: losing her virginity—because Brittany didn't count, because they were both girls, and she wasn't going to go there now—parties, and being unbelievably hot and _wanted_. But obviously she didn't want to turn in an assignment like that. So she decided to write about things she wasn't looking forward to. She wasn't looking forward to math class, or health class, or the cafeteria, having to spend four years with the same stupid people, dealing with bullshit, and being old enough to be accountable for but still too young to have any real power.

Brittany reached over and tugged Santana's paper out from under her arm. She scanned the list quickly, a frown tugging her bottom lip.

"This is really sad, Santana," she pouted, skating her fingers over the surface of the paper. "We're supposed to be writing happy things now. Stop being so pedestrian."

Santana felt the tips of her ears burn. "Pessimistic, Britt. And I'm not. I just don't want to do pointless assignments."

The teacher shushed them before Brittany had a chance to respond. Santana started a new paper. She pretended she was actually excited about starting high school, and she wrote about how she was eager to make new friends and learn many new things. She could feel the sap dripping off the page.

The bell put her out of her misery. She walked with Brittany pinky-in-pinky down the hall toward Brittany's next class. Brittany had paled the second she passed the threshold into school that morning: McKinley High was a labyrinth compared to their middle school and the hallways were overcrowded and overstimulating. So Santana had taken it upon herself to make sure Brittany was okay; she looped their pinkies together and lead her from class to class, even if it made her late to all of her own.

"Santana?" Brittany asked as they passed by the bulletin board with its kaleidoscope of flyers and club advertisements on it. "When do you think they'll put the cheerleading signup sheet on it?"

"Dunno," Santana popped her lips. "I'll sign you up if I see it first, and you sign me up too, okay?"

Brittany grinned. "Okay."

It was Santana who signed them both up; Brittany first, with a heart instead of a dot over the i in her name, then Santana, with a heart instead of the o in Lopez. She had to claw her way through a rabid pack of teenagers who were all clamoring for a spot on the coveted clipboard. Santana was glad her elbows were sharp because it gave her an edge that allowed her to be one of the first to sign up. So what if she doled out a few black eyes? It wasn't like any of them, as Cheerios, were going to be foreigners to injuries.

And then came the actual tryouts. The locker room was overflowing with changing girls and Brittany and Santana huddled together for safety—not that Santana needed Brittany close to her to feel safe, of course. The girl with hazel eyes from first period was there, regal as a sphinx. Her hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail and her gym clothes hung crisply off her body. She smiled nervously when she saw Santana and sat down next to her, smoothing out the bottom of her Soffes before settling onto the bench.

"I'm Quinn," she said, holding out a hand to shake. Santana eyed it disdainfully, because seriously, what century was this girl _from_? Handshakes? They were going to be cheerleaders—or, at least, Santana and Brittany were—not members of a country club.

"I'm Brittany," Brittany grinned at Quinn. "I love your T necklace. Why is it a T, though? Your name begins with a Q, right?"

"That's a cross, B," Santana sighed as she pulled off her shirt, sucking her stomach in because of the cold. "Remember? You've been to church before."

Brittany pursed her lips and looked to the left. "No..."

Santana signed again. Before Santana's parents had split, they'd always attended midnight mass as a family—the one time a year they pretended to like each other. Santana had dragged Brittany along last time, but the church, full of scary, angry statues and stained glass that made everything look harsh and bloody, frightened Brittany. Brittany, who was so much more at home in a skirt and flower crown spinning around like a colorful top, had fallen asleep as soon as her butt had hit the pew. She had slid down until her head rested on Santana's shoulder, a faint simper on her face. Santana couldn't bear to move her; Brittany looked so calm and peaceful and when Santana stroked the web between her thumb and forefinger she smiled and nuzzled into the crook of Santana's neck.

"I'm Santana." Santana broke the awkward silence. Awkward silences were kind of a staple in conversations with Brittany, whose exuberance and eccentricity was off-putting to people who didn't know her like Santana did. Santana had gotten used to kick-starting small-talk over the years. "Do you think you'll make it? I've heard these tryouts are like, impossible. You have to be pretty extraordinary to get in."

Quinn pursed her lips. She opened her mouth to answer, but changed her mind and snapped it shut. Santana grinned for a split second while she pulled off her pants and tugged on her gym shorts.

"Ready, B?" Santana asked, sticking out her pinky for Brittany to take. Her heart was thundering in her abdomen, similar to those times with Brittany that she totally didn't think about because she wasn't supposed to fuck her best friend and like it.

Brittany did a little bunny hop before curling her pinky into Santana's. "Totally," she said, shaking out her arms and legs as they walked toward the football field. "We're gonna rock."

Santana couldn't help but disagree as they stood three minutes later, shoulder-to-shoulder like soldiers, in a line across the football field. A mannish woman—seriously, gym teacher stereotype much?—with short, blonde hair and curling lips rode up and down the line on a golf cart, shouting into a megaphone. Something about champions and winning and small rodents and sadism. Santana just kept her eyes forward, her shoulders back, and her bellybutton trying to kiss her spine like Brittany had showed her. She didn't even flinch when Coach Sylvester shouted at her, though inside her heart was quivering in her throat and her stomach was turning over on itself in nervous knots.

"You're the most miserable lot of fatties and failures I've ever seen," Coach Sylvester barked, slamming to a stop in front of Quinn. "But with my help and guidance I can make some of you _champions_."

Santana puffed herself up at Coach Sylvester's words. She _would_ be a champion.

"Except for you," Sue digressed, pointing to a brunette further down the line, "Your face looks like the wood chips my poor deceased grandmother used to eat with almond milk for breakfast. Get out of my sight! And you too!" She pointed to one of the few boys trying out, who was nervously chewing his cuticles. "And you!" She pointed further down the line, to someone Santana couldn't see without craning her neck.

"You see," Coach Sylvester turned back to address the line. "Your parents and teachers and the blasphemy that is the Board of Education have been telling you that you're all special, that you're all winners—I'm here to tell you you're not. My Cheerios are the elite of the cheerleading world; the victorious, sweet, first bite of an apple, the cute fluffy head feathers on carrion crow, the famed P-39 fighter jet."

Santana let her gaze flicker to the right to see how Brittany was faring. She had her lip drawn into her mouth, chewing on it nervously. Her eyes were large and teary. Santana fought the urge to nudge her because she knew Sue would sense her movement and lunge.

Sue continued ranting for a moment, occasionally yelling at a particular person's flaws in her megaphone. She seemed to be going on about personal injuries and a war, but Santana didn't really care. Then Sue yelled at them to start running—and the first forty girls who dropped or lagged behind were automatically off the team. Santana took off in a sprint, with Quinn at her heels. Brittany raced ahead, her long legs carrying her across the circumference of the field faster than Santana's could.

Santana cleared her mind as she ran; she felt the burn in her chest and legs and embraced it, pushing through it until she felt like she was soaring. And soon enough, Sue was screeching that they were done and that because the Board of Education required she give them a mandatory five minute break, they could catch their breath.

Santana stumbled over to Brittany, who was chugging from her water bottle like she'd been stuck in a parched desert for years.

"Stop," she croaked, reaching for it. "You'll just get sick, remember?" She tipped the water into the back of her throat, shivering as she felt the chill spread through her chest.

"I don't know if I like this," Brittany admitted, frowning at Santana. "Sue is really mean."

"She'll make us champions, Britt," Santana's gaze flickered around Brittany's flushed face. If they had been in private, Santana would have reached out to smooth stray wisps of hair away from Brittany's forehead, but because they weren't she tried to smooth them down with her eyes. "She's just trying to scare off the wimps. You looked amazing out there."

Brittany blushed, which made Santana's heart constrict. Brittany dragged her toe around in the cracked, dry dirt. "It was just running... it's so easy. It's like dancing super fast in a straight line."

The rest of the Cheerios tryouts passed in a blur of pain and delirium. But neither Brittany nor Santana was kicked out of the tryouts, so feeling like her stomach was getting kicked around somewhere outside of her body was totally worth it. They had this one in the bag.

A few days later, after they had found out that they both _had_ both made the team, Brittany had jumped into Santana's arms and planted an excited, vibrant kiss on her cheek. And Santana allowed it, even though that was _totally_ not okay, because holy fuck, they had made it! But after Brittany had buried her face in the dip of Santana's neck and started peppering sweet kisses there, Santana swore she could feel a few burning stares on her back. But the rich smell of Brittany in her nostrils calmed her, and the tingles just added to her excitement.

"Sweet lady kisses later?" Brittany whispered. Santana was thankful that Brittany had finally mastered the art of whispering, because she didn't think explaining Sweet Lady Kisses to her teammates, who would probably understand what the fuck _Sweet Lady Kisses_ meant, sounded like fun.

Santana opened her mouth to decline but Brittany's voice stopped her. "Please? I'm so sore, Santana. I need some cuddle."

Santana couldn't say no. They didn't have sex, though—not that what they did together was really sex, anyway. But there was no below-the-waist touching and neither of them came; instead, they just curled up together and traded gentle, slow-and-sweet-as-molasses kisses. They were too tired and sore to put any effort into, like, _actually_ moving, and Brittany had said it was better just to get their cuddle on and feel close than attempt anything fancy. It felt nice, just to be held. Brittany's attention made Santana feel so much better.

* * *

><p>Being a Cheerio had its perks. Within weeks, Santana was balancing on one of the highest rungs on the social ladder. Her attendance at parties was mandatory and her approval was coveted, even though she was cruel and snappish to everyone except Brittany. She didn't need friends. They were just going to find out her secrets—even <em>untrue<em> secrets—and use them against her. Caesar was an idiot for letting Brutus get close enough to end him. Santana wasn't that stupid.

And the boozy, flickering high school parties she attended were exactly like those in the movies, though the screen could never capture the smell: sweat and musk and bitter smoke and the sharp sting of alcohol. Parties made Santana feel alive and _hot_, lost in the wave of dancing, touching bodies.

Brittany was always her anchor at these parties; a golden-haired, whirling blend of colors that Santana was drawn to. But she was careful not to cling to her—and careful not to let Brittany cling back. They were besties, not conjoined twins. And it was totally uncool to ignore all the arm candy in the room, because McKinley high churned out some _superfine_ boys, even if they were all show with nothing inside.

Then Brittany started finding guys on her own, and that was totally not okay. Brittany was too special for those guys who stared at her like she was a fucking possession or notch on their bedpost.

And Santana was getting pretty sick of that. She tried to explain it to Brittany—that she couldn't stay too close to Santana, but she couldn't just go off with some guy either—but Brittany had just mumbled something about beggars in rock candy houses and shuffled away.

It was at one of these parties where Santana almost lost her virginity—well, the _real_ one, anyway. It was some guy's fault, because Brittany was sucking face with him on a musty old couch and Santana didn't like it. Santana wrinkled her nose; he probably smelled like soggy Doritos and, to add insult to injury, he kept putting his hands in places that were not okay to put his hands, because _Santana_ put her hands there, and Brittany liked it, and Brittany couldn't _like_ whatever that guy was doing.

Santana watched them from a corner, clutching a dented, sweating plastic cup. She was paralyzed; watching some guy kiss Brittany like that made her stomach twist itself around, but she couldn't do anything about it. Like, at all. If she went over and broke them up the dude was sure to make a fuss, and people would wonder why she cared so much. She didn't even know the dude's name—and Brittany probably didn't either.

Seriously, why was Brittany doing this to her? Just because Santana wouldn't let her cling to her or dance with her or anything didn't mean she had to _flaunt_ herself, beg for attention like some pathetic _puppy_, like that.

And why was she focusing so much on Brittany? She was just her friend. Jesus. She probably wasn't drunk enough. Yeah, that was it. Those shots she had done earlier weren't doing their job. With a grunt, Santana pushed herself off of the wall and she made her way over to kitchen.

"Hey," a rough, rich, deep voice rumbled pleasantly. "You want some beer? Or I can totally make something stronger if you want."

"Thanks," Santana smirked and took a sultry sip from her cup only to realize it was empty; but whatever, his eyes glazed over as he watched her lick an imaginary drip from her upper lip, which made her pulse rush. She felt powerful, and she never felt powerful.

The boy shook himself a bit as he loped off to find stronger alcohol. He began to pull apart the kitchen, taking different objects from around it and placing them on the table—a cocktail shaker, a lime, some warm canned juice, a bottle of Glendronach Scotch, and some powdered cinnamon. He made a big show of pouring everything into the bottom cup with a flourish, waggling his eyebrow at Santana. She giggled, because that's what she was supposed to do, even though she felt like laughing at him. What the fuck was he trying to make with expensive scotch, canned pineapple juice, cinnamon, and a lime?

"I'm Angelo Michael," he said, slicing off a sliver of lime and resting it on the edge of her glass. "Like the painter dude?"

Santana's laugh was snippy and cruel. "Wasn't Michaelangelo like, totally gay?" She sneered. "No straight guy could have carved something like David, that's for sure. Not even a _European_ straight guy."

Angelo blinked a few times, looking like Brittany's cat whenever she took a flash picture of him. "I... guess?"

Santana took a delicate sip of her drink; it tasted like deodorant and rotten fruit. "This is totally hot," she purred, brushing a slip of hair behind her ear. "I'm Santana."

"That's super sexy," Angelo took a sip from his glass. "You're Mexican, huh? I hear your people are great in bed."

Santana raised her eyebrow, because _seriously_? _Mexican_? _Her_ people? Who was this guy kidding? "I'm not Mexican, but I _am_ pretty great in bed." Santana started to giggle. Fuck. Her drink was strong. She took another sip of her drink and everything blurred like an unfocused camera. Angelo looked so handsome from this angle, all dark hair and high cheekbones and sandpaper stubble.

"You're Hispanic, though." He smirked, coming in closer to her. He smelled like root beer and sweat. "I like that."

He leaned in and she kissed him. His mouth was sour but his technique was flawless. He wasn't the first boy Santana had ever kissed, not by far, but he was the best. He tilted her head up so he could get a better angle and then he flickered his tongue to run across Santana's teeth, which she'd totally have to try with Brittany because those little shivers were fun.

When they broke their kiss, he stared at her with slightly unfocused eyes. Then he cocked his eyebrow and husked, "Wanna go somewhere else?"

Santana nodded shyly. What did he mean by that? In movies, it meant sex, but they were in high school—he probably just meant more kissing. Maybe some heavy petting. Yeah.

He led her upstairs, past more couples hooking up. Santana spared herself a glance in Brittany's direction. She was still making out with Mr. Asshole on the couch.

Santana and Angelo paused on the landing to start making out again. She could feel his erection pressing against her thighs. It made something clench inside her. This was going to be awesome, even though her stomach was churning with apprehension.

He pulled off his shirt as soon as they found a room—the master bedroom from the looks of it. Then he shucked off his jeans and stood in front of her in a pair of tented Spongebob underwear. Then he pulled those off too, baring everything for her. It was the first time she'd ever seen a penis in real life. It bobbed with his movements and was about as thick and long as a pickling cucumber—probably why they used those in health class.

Angelo stoked himself and his penis moved in his hand. Bile rose in Santana's throat. The prospect of actually _doing_ anything seemed really revolting now. Angelo began to leak a bit, and he was all _veiny_ and pale and shit. Santana began to wonder how women ever found penises attractive, because in real life, they were _totally_ a turnoff.

"I..." Santana whispered, crossing her arms over her chest. "I don't..." How could she say no without upsetting him? He'd definitely make a fuss if she refused. But he... it...

"You can give me a handjob to start if you want," Angelo sighed, sinking onto the bed behind him. She must have looked like a rat in a trap because he grunted awkwardly. "You ever done this before?"

"Of course. Who hasn't? You're..." She wanted to say he was tiny to insult him, but his girth was impressive, even if it was stiff and grotesque. "Big."

Angelo grinned. "So I've been told. Here, come sit down." His voice was honey sweet but his twitching penis made Santana uneasy.

She whispered, hugging herself harder. "I don't want to..."

Angelo groaned. "Are you seriously going to back out now? Fucking cocktease!"

Santana flinched.

"C'mere, baby." Angelo's voice had turned sickly sweet again. "You don't have to like, swallow or anything. Just come here. We can make out and stuff. You're really pretty—no, you're sexy. _So_ sexy."

"No," Santana backed up against the wall. "I don't want to."

"That's totally unfair," Angelo whined, sitting up and moving toward her. Santana began to shake. "You teased me like a fucking _slut_ and now you want to beg out? How do you think I feel with you blue balling me like this, bitch?"

He moved to grab her arm and Santana let out a piercing scream. She froze and slid down the wall, shaking and hugging her knees. There was a sudden draft in the room that made Santana's hands and feet turn to ice._ Don't hurt me, don't hurt me._

The doorknob rattled. "Hey!" The voice was muffled from behind the door. "I don't think she's enjoying that!"

The door opened and Miles stepped through. He had matured over the summer; he wasn't a gangly boy anymore, but a slim, muscular man.

Angelo sprung back, shielding himself with his hands. "Dude!" He whined. "Not cool!"

Miles ignored him, crouching next to Santana. "You wanna get out of here?" He asked, mirroring Angelo's words but with a soft, gentle tone. "Come on, I'll take you home. Or for a burger. Burgers make everything better."

He slipped a cool, dry hand under Santana's arm and pulled her to her feet. He slung his arm protectively over her curled shoulders as he led her downstairs. She allowed herself to be led. Her pulse was still racing; it started to hurt her chest but she couldn't calm down because every time she tried she saw his eyes and she saw _it_ and holy fuck she was terrified.

She wanted Brittany. She wanted Brittany _now_. Santana looked for her; she was still on the couch, still making out with that idiot _guy_. Santana could cry. That guy was just making out with someone hot but Santana _needed_ her Britt Britt.

But Brittany didn't care about Santana, because if she did, she wouldn't want to hurt her like this. She just _wouldn't_.

And if Brittany didn't care about her, Santana didn't want her. She wasn't blind. If Brittany didn't love her anymore, Santana wouldn't try to make her.

Santana tucked her face into the crook of Miles's neck. She was holding her breath so she wouldn't start crying. It was so _gross_ watching some unappreciative guy suck face with Brittany.

"Angelo's a jerk," Miles whispered in Santana's ear, weaving her through pulsing bodies. Nobody stared, for which she was thankful. "And a spoiled brat. I'm glad I heard you scream."

They slipped through the front door. Miles turned them sideways so they could still be side-by-side. If Santana wasn't so shaken she would have shrugged him off, but she felt so unsteady, like she would topple and crash like a Jenga tower if Miles let go.

Miles poured her into the passenger seat of his car before looping around the front to settle into the seat next to her.

"What's your address again, 'Tana?" He asked, peeling out onto the road.

Santana groaned and rested her forehead on the frosty glass. "Don't call me that," she said, her voice a cracked whisper. Everything was so fuzzy but she knew she didn't want to go home; she was at her mom's that weekend and Lima Heights Adjacent wasn't exactly pleasant this time of night. And no matter how quiet Santana would creep inside, her tía was sure to hear her and get all riled up, and seeing her in her ruffled nightdress-cum-matching-dressing-gown and hair curlers was not something Santana ever wanted to repeat.

"Burger," Santana mumbled, lifting her tender skull away from the window to stare at Miles. He shifted the car into gear and they rolled down the street. "You can't deny me my burger now."

Miles laughed. "Sure thing, _Santana_. You ever been to Burger Burger? I think they're open this late. They're _so_ much better than Mickey D's."

Santana bit back a tart _duh_. She stared out at the rows of identical houses passing by outside her window. The streetlights made a flickering pattern as they picked up speed.

Miles talked as they rode. "Don't worry, I didn't have anything to drink tonight. Well, except some lemonade. But like, my grandma drinks too much, and I don't like that. So I never drink. It makes my head all fuzzy."

Santana didn't reply, so Miles put the radio on. Some classic rock song flitted through the speakers.

The burger joint was still open when they got there, though not by much. A bored, gum-snapping cashier was mopping the floor when they walked in, but she took their order just the same. Miles ordered them two burgers, two fries, and two milkshakes, and for once Santana was glad she didn't have to choose.

The food tasted like sawdust in Santana's mouth and she couldn't choke it down. She was just so fucking tired; she rested her head against the table and closed her eyes when Miles got up to throw their trash away.

"You ready to go home yet?" Miles asked, rubbing her shoulder gently to get her attention. She shivered; nobody except Brittany touched her like that.

"Can I stay with you tonight?" She made her voice as weak as she could. She didn't want to go home; didn't want to be alone.

Miles pursed his lips and thought a moment. "Sure," he finally said, letting his fingers trail through Santana's ponytail. "My grandma won't notice anyway. I'll sleep on the couch."

Santana clung to his torso instead of thanking him.

* * *

><p>Miles's house was small and humble on the outside, but it was even smaller on the inside. It smelled like mothballs and cigarettes. Miles winced, embarrassed, as he led Santana to his small bedroom, not bothering to turn on any lights.<p>

Miles's room was small and stuffy, with clothes and video game cartridges strewn carelessly around the floor. His bed was unmade and Santana had to sidestep the mess on her way to it.

"Do you want a shirt and boxers to borrow?" He asked, digging through his dresser drawer. "They're clean, don't worry. Never been worn." He tossed her an unopened package of boxers and a faded t-shirt from the Lima Y.M.C.A.

"I'll go get some water and an Advil," he offered, turning on his heel and walking toward the kitchen, closing the door behind him. Santana buried her face into the shirt and inhaled its bitter, cheap laundry detergent smell. Then she peeled off her clothes and shrugged into Miles's. She stuck her finger in the crotch hole of her loaned boxers and giggled because guys were _so_ weird and the fact their underwear had a hole to pee through was really funny.

Miles knocked before coming back into his bedroom. His eyes looked soft and worried in the dim light from his bedroom lamp. He handed her the pill and scratched plastic cup, which she took gratefully.

He had his shirt around his neck before he seemed to remember Santana was there; his freckled cheeks darkened to a molted pink color and he pulled his shirt back around his torso. He ran to the bathroom, a blush staining his cheeks.

Santana laid down in his bed, pulling the covers up around her neck. She hated sleeping in unfamiliar rooms. She hated sleeping in beds that weren't hers or Brittany's.

Miles walked back in, dressed in a pair of Superman boxers and a t-shirt.

"Cute," she drawled, leaning back into his pillow. He laughed, obviously not hurt.

"Are you sure you're okay, Santana?" He asked, twisting his hands in front of him. "I don't like when you're so pale and... calm."

Santana scowled. "I'm fine."

Miles let his hands rest across his abdomen. "Do you want me to... I don't know, stay here until you fall asleep? My momma used to do that and I liked it."

Santana felt tears burn the backs of her eyes. She didn't feel deserving of his kindness. "You can sleep here if you want," she finally whispered.

"Really?" he asked. "Are you sure you want me here? 'Cause with what happened to you tonight, I don't want you to feel... unsafe. And I don't want you to wake up all afraid."

Santana scooted over so there was room for Miles to lie down next to her, which he did. "You'd make me feel safer, actually," she said, throwing an arm around his torso. It was muscular, flat, and so unfamiliar. "But your clothes stay on."

Miles chuckled. "Sleep well, Santana." His voice was as silky soft as the blanket that was wrapped around her shoulders.

"You're a cool guy, Miles," Santana sighed. "Thanks."

* * *

><p>Santana didn't sleep that night; her stomach ached and her head throbbed and she just couldn't get comfortable in Miles's embrace. But she was okay. Miles made her lumpy, stiff pancakes that looked like little air hockey pucks for breakfast, and after she picked at them for a few minutes, he offered her a ride home. She accepted and gave him the address to her dad's condo.<p>

Miles talked a lot—about TV shows, about how he was a baseball player, about how he was sad baseball didn't have cheerleaders because then maybe they'd see each other more—and Santana listened. She kissed his burning cheek when he pulled up in front of her characterless building.

"Bye, Miles," she called, slinging her purse over her shoulder. She made her way up to her dad's condo. It was empty, like always. She didn't even feel sad anymore. It had been too many years to bother feeling sorry for herself like that.

Santana plugged her dead phone in and undressed so she could take a shower. She turned the water as far towards burning as she could to try to get rid of that grimy residue of smoke, sweat, alcohol and shame.

When she walked back into her room, her hair and body wrapped in identical plum-colored towels, her phone was blinking furiously. She opened it and saw she had fifteen unopened texts—most of them from Brittany, each one more panicked than the last. There was a random text from Quinn, too.

_Santana- Im having a sleepover in a week. Details to come. Ur coming rite? I invited Britt. ~Q_

Santana sent her back a text that said _duh_, she would be there, and then she shot of a quick text to Brittany that said she was okay, was sleeping off a mega sucky hangover, and that she'd see her on Monday.

And then Santana collapsed, fast asleep, onto her bed.

* * *

><p>It was Brittany who opened the imposing wooden door of the Fabray house when Santana knocked on it a week later. She let out a soft "Yay!" before tackling Santana into a bone-crushing hug. Santana hugged her back, a bit shocked.<p>

"I spent the night here," Brittany explained, brushing her fingers over Santana's face, remapping her because they'd been apart since early the previous evening. Santana darkened under her scrutiny.

"Really," Santana mumbled, pushing past Brittany into the house. _Large_ was the first word that sprang to mind, followed by _imposing_ and _stuffy_.

"Quinn's house is like a library," Brittany whispered. It echoed across the house. "You can't make _any_ noise."

"Sounds fun." _I spent the night with Miles again_ was on the tip of her tongue. And she had. He had texted her and asked if she wanted to come over and watch a scary movie, and because Brittany had left her house in a huff after failed Sweet Lady Kisses (Santana's fault, but seriously, her mom was going to come home any minute and that was something she didn't want her to see) Santana had accepted. Miles held her hand throughout the whole thing in case she got scared, but judging how clammy his hand was he was more frightened than she was. She normally hated horror movies—blood and gore made her nauseated and frightened—but she'd just held Miles's clammy hand and watched the shadows and blood swirl like syrup on the screen and she hadn't been upset at all.

"Hi," Quinn floated downstairs, dressed in a lime and cream babydoll dress. "Santana, I'm so glad you could come."

Santana grimaced up at her. "Who else is coming?"

"Not many people," Quinn said, leading her into the den, where all the furniture had been pushed against the walls. "Megan, Catherine, Katherine, Kirby, Victoria, Rebecca, and Tiffany. You could put your sleeping bag here if you want. Brittany already called the couch."

"You can share with me if you want," Brittany whispered. Her breath kissed Santana's ear.

"Let's get started!" Santana said too loudly. "What movie are we gonna watch?" She loped across the room to flip through Quinn's movie collection.

The other girls arrived soon, including Tiffany, whose skinny days were long gone. Her clothes bulged at the seam; her face was swollen; and her eyes seemed to have sunken in. Not being the Cheerio captain must have caused her to like, become a hippopotamus or something. She certainly had small enough ears.

Cheerleader sleepovers hadn't changed from when Santana was a knobby-kneed sixth grader, though instead of gossiping about cute boys, they talked about _hot_ boys and sex.

"I've heard you can get pregnant from oral," Victoria whispered, her perfectly manicured hands covering her Cupid's bow lips. "But only giving it. It like, travels through you."

"No way," Kirby gasped, her hazel eyes wide. If her face hadn't been so narrow, she could have passed as Quinn's sister.

"Well _I_ heard you can get AIDS from public restrooms," Rebecca's doe eyes were wide and gravely serious.

"Oh my god," Tiffany drawled, taking a sip of her Diet Coke. "You guys are so stupid. Let's do something fun—Never Have I Ever or Truth or Dare."

"Never Have I Ever, definitely," Quinn said, reaching for her gray soda can. "But with soda, right? I can't touch my parents' alcohol..."

"Duh," Tiffany rolled her eyes. "Here, I'll start. I never kissed a boy."

Everyone except Quinn took a sip. Santana burst out laughing and Quinn's cheeks colored.

"Catholic school," she mumbled. "I'm saving myself for someone awesome."

"Yeah, yeah, don't get your chastity belt in a twist," Santana griped, taking another sip for good measure. Was Quinn for real?

Catherine smirked. "I've never kissed a girl before," she giggled, rolling it in her palms. Santana jumped a little. Shit. Shit shit shit. Her soda was frozen against her leg.

Brittany took a dainty sip from her can. The group gasped.

"Who?" Tiffany cried. "That little thing with Santana at my house doesn't count!"

At the mention of her name, Santana sunk further into the footboard of the couch. _Please_, she pleaded, screwing her eyes up tight. _Don't say anything, Britt. Don't say anything_.

"Um..." Brittany blushed and shifted around on her pillow. "I totally made out with my cat once. Charity's a girl, right Santana?"

"Right." Her voice sounded really far away.

The other girls sighed and rolled their eyes. Someone spat retard into their can but they weren't loud enough for Santana to know who to plot revenge against.

"Next one," Santana said, spinning her drink in her hands. "I never smoked before." She'd done it three times—marijuana once with her cousin, which only made her jumpy and paranoid, and twice with cigarettes she stole from interns when she went to work with her dad. She liked cigarettes; they calmed her, made her voice feel rich and dark like coffee.

"I've never drank alcohol," Katherine said, tipping her Coke can back into her mouth. All the girls followed, even Quinn.

"Wow, Quinn," Santana teased, batting her eyelashes. Quinn glared.

"I'm not _that_ stuffy," she said.

"Yeah, whatever." Santana blew her off.

"I never... _you know_ before," Tiffany said with a smirk in Santana's direction. Santana froze again. Her stomach flipped when Brittany took a sip.

"Ooh, with who?" Megan said, looking eagerly at Brittany. "Was he cute?"

Brittany smiled, a coral blush spreading across her nose and cheeks. "Super cute."

"What was his name?" Victoria gasped, edging closer to Brittany to hear her reaction.

"Guys, she's probably making it up," Tiffany rolled her eyes.

_Please don't say something obvious like Santiago, Britt. Please. What we do—_did_—isn't sex, I promise._

"Carter Cerio." Brittany smiled. She liked being the center of attention when people were kind.

_What_? When had... when did... Brittany with Carter _Cerio_? Why hadn't Santana _heard_ of this?

"What?" Santana's voice was winded like she'd just been punched. "_When_?"

"A party." Brittany's good mood had dissipated and she drew into herself.

"But when?" Santana was about two seconds from bursting into tears, and she didn't have the guise of alcohol to cover her.

"A week ago..." Brittany bit her lip and stared at one of the porcelain angels on Quinn's bookshelf.

"Don't you feel bad you didn't wait?" Quinn's voice was clipped. Brittany shook her head, still avoiding Santana's eye contact.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Santana finally hissed. "Don't you think I would have wanted to know something like that?"

Brittany shrugged, her face turning stony. "I forgot."

It was a blatant lie, and they both knew it. Santana curled herself into a tight ball like a crumpled shirt, trying not to let her tears overflow.

Brittany—_her_ Brittany—had fucked some random guy. That was... that wasn't supposed to happen. She hadn't even told her! The room spun around Santana, flinging her against the walls. Why hadn't Brittany asked her advice first? Wasn't she supposed to ask her? Weren't they supposed to talk about everything together? It just wasn't _right_.

And where had she been? A week ago... she'd been at _that_ party. The party where she was angry at Brittany for making out with someone, the party where that asshole Angelo had almost assaulted her, the party where she went home with Miles. Santana's heart dropped into her stomach. She hadn't been there for Brittany, and Brittany had made a mistake.

She _really_ wanted to cry now.

* * *

><p>After Brittany's confession, Santana found herself shaken up. She couldn't eat, and when she tried, it just sucked the moisture from her mouth like she was trying to eat a cotton ball. And she was always freezing, trying to pull her jacket tighter around her chest to get some warmth.<p>

Brittany was avoiding her. She didn't wear her friendship bracelet anymore, not that Santana noticed at all. And it wasn't like Santana wore hers anymore, either.

Maybe Brittany was scared of Santana's anger. That had to be it. The other possibility—that Brittany didn't want to be friends with her—was just too hard to bear.

And because her schedule was suddenly much freer, she found herself drawn to Miles. He, as archaic and dorky as it sounded, was courting her. He took her on dates, paid for them, and kissed her sweetly before dropping her off in front of her dad's house. He gave her little presents: trinkets from the carts at the mall and candy and a little white teddy bear that said Be Mine on it. Santana relished his attention. It felt good to be wanted.

But she never trusted him completely, either, though he knew more about Santana than anyone except _her_. After that first night he never saw her cry. There were so many things she'd refuse to talk to him about, even though she felt like a bitch about it later—what she wanted to do in life, her secret hopes and dreams, and her family. She wouldn't talk to anyone about her family, even though Miles talked about his.

Every other week, they had a dinner-and-a-movie date-the local theater had cheaper student rates on Thursday nights and Miles got them tickets. He and Santana sat side-by-side in the back of the theater, their elbows clenched at their sides because otherwise they'd have to share the armrest. One cool November night they watched a movie that made Santana think of Brittany because it was one she would have loved because of how witty it was. Santana found herself wishing she could take her, but they hadn't talked in weeks and Santana wasn't ready to bridge the gap.

_Brittany_. Santana wondered how she was doing. She was probably reading to one of her nasty cats right now, or making a blanket fort with her sister. Maybe she was... _no_. She _wasn't_ fucking some guy right now. She couldn't be. Could she?

Santana bit her lip. Where was she? It was Thursday night—who has sex on Thursday nights? Maybe Brittany's dad—who was more distractible and dyslexic than she was—was trying to help her with her homework. Now that Santana wasn't around Brittany's grades must have been slipping, but it was her fault for fucking that random guy without asking first, so Santana totally didn't feel guilty about that. Not at all.

The movie continued on, colorful splatters shifting around the screen like paintballs. Santana stroked her belly, thinking of Brittany; her soft skin, the smile that looked like she had bottled the sun inside of it, the way her voice became downy soft whenever they cuddled after something exciting.

She really _missed_ her, okay? That pressure in her chest wasn't going away and now Santana wanted to cry. Why was she doing this _now_? She was on a fucking date. Brittany probably didn't even miss her, at least not like Santana missed Brittany.

Santana reached over and pulled Miles into a kiss. It tasted metallic, like guilt.

She loved him. She had to.

Miles's lips were gentle against hers. She let her hands trail around him—anything to distract her. He had a super nice back; supple and warm and strong. His biceps were defined from all the baseball he played. Santana liked to feel the raw, masculine power underneath his skin.

Santana pulled Miles closer by the back of his head, tilting her mouth so she could press her tongue to his. They spent the rest of the movie making out. His hands began to awkwardly skim over her body, tickling her. She grabbed his hand and placed it over her breast, which he squeezed like a stress ball. She clamped down ruthlessly on his lip in return, because _shit_, that hurt. Then she smoothed his hurt over with her tongue, because he was just a stupid boy who didn't know anything.

Santana purred against Miles's lips after the lights flickered back on, blinding them because the idiot in the booth had never heard of a dimmer switch. "Your place?"

Miles nodded, shifting in his seat.

If Santana had paused to take it all in, she would have stopped it—but she hadn't, and she didn't. Thinking about what she was doing, and what she was throwing herself into, would just make her cry.

The ride back to Miles's house was filled with shy touches and lusty kisses at each stoplight that made Santana's lips tingle, but they lacked the electricity _hers_—Brittany's—had. But Santana wasn't thinking about her at all, because she had Miles and, _ew_, she wasn't _like that_.

They were hardly through Miles's bedroom door before Santana pulled his shirt off and pushed him onto the bed, running her palms possessively over the muscles of his chest. They felt smooth and warm, pleasant but not awe-inspiring. They were like naked marble statues at a museum.

But apparently Miles didn't think so; he gasped as she stroked his chest, and when her fingers brushed his nipple he jerkily reached over to brush her hair out of her face. He had a look of pure adoration on his face, not unlike the one that—no. She was _done_ thinking of her.

"You're beautiful," Miles whispered up at her. She tried to smirk, full of confidence and swagger, but a sudden chill swept over the room and she found herself unable to find the words for her lame tongue. This was _real_.

Miles helped her out of her shirt. He was shaking with excitement. Santana was shaking, too, but more from nerves than anything else. But that's how all virgins felt, right?

Miles looked confused by Santana's bra, so she helped him by reaching behind her back to unclasp it. When her breasts were released into his waiting hands he just stared at her in awe like she had just placed the most precious jewels in the world in his open palms.

Having learned his mistake from the movie theater, he gently caressed her. His hands were surprisingly soft and smooth for guy hands, which had always felt rough before. Santana felt her nipples harden under his palms.

This felt _good_. She moaned and pressed into him further, the rough material of his jeans cutting into her bare stomach. He laid down on his bed, pulling her with him. She fit into his body; her slim hips against his, her shoulders in the dips his made.

They stayed there for a few minutes, soaking in each other. Miles smelled like velvet seats and popcorn and sweat and boy. It tickled Santana's nostrils and made her inhale deeper, filling her chest with him; his sweat, his almost worn-off cologne, his quiet strength.

Miles's fingers twitched against her back; they trailed lower, over her hips and the curve of her ass.

"Can I touch you, Santana?" he asked, breathless. His fingers were pressing against her through her underwear, making the room spin. Santana nodded and ground against him before sitting up and peeling off her skirt and underwear.

Miles's eyes were huge now, eager and sparkling. He moved his hand reverently to wrap around Santana's thigh, massaging the crest of her hip with his thumb.

Santana closed her eyes. This felt good; she felt her body reacting, the dip between her legs getting wetter and hotter, but her mind was somewhere else. She didn't want to think right now, because thinking hurt too much.

Miles's fingers were thick and his movements clumsy, but what he lacked in experience he made up in exuberance. Every thrust of his fingers slid into her easier than the last until she was riding his fingers in a steady, rolling wave. It wasn't like Brittany; his fingers were thick and rougher and they didn't send shivers everywhere, but _wow_ did this feel good.

"S-Santana?" Miles's voice cut through her bliss. "Can I... can _we... you know_? I have condoms, don't worry." He pulled his fingers out from between Santana's legs and, using his clean hand, rummaged through his bedside drawer. He pulled out a small, black package.

"I, um," he swallowed, "Do you want to?"

Did she? She liked kissing Miles; he was soft and gentle and sweet. She liked kissing Brittany better, but that was just because they had been doing it longer and Brittany's lipgloss tasted _awesome_. And when she and Brittany touched each other—it was pretty awesome. So yeah, she totally had this one in the bag. Sex with Miles would feel _great_.

"Yeah." Santana could feel her face split into a shy grin. She slid off of Miles and curled into his side, watching him pluck a foil square from the box and shimmy off his pants and underwear. His erection sprung free, long and pale and stiff. The tip looked softer than the shaft; more sensitive, softer, wetter. With a gentle hand Santana reached over to touch it. She brushed her fingers over his stomach, his wiry treasure trail, towards his base. She wrapped her fingers around it like she used to hold the slippery water snakes she got from museum gift shops.

Miles chucked because her touches were too light; he wrapped his hand around hers and squeezed, holding her there, his warmth sandwiching her hand on both sides, his smooth shaft against her palm and his smooth palm against the back of her hand. He turned his head and kissed her like he loved her.

Santana let go of him and reached over to grab the sliver of foil from his fingers. The wrapper sparkled in the lamplight. She picked at the corner until she could tear off a side to pull the condom out. It felt like a silver dollar in her fingertips.

He showed her how to put it on, how to roll it over him and make sure it wouldn't slip. Santana stroked him again once it was secure. It felt like feeling skin through a balloon; she could feel his warmth under the latex; feel the give in his body through the lining.

"What does it feel like?" She asked, brushing him again. He moved into her hand.

"Muffled," he said after a moment. "Kind of funny... shielded almost. I can't feel as much so I'll last longer. But I don't really know; I've never done this before."

He gave her a sideways smile and molded her hand against him again. He showed her how to stroke him: not too hard, not too soft, not too fast, not too slow.

"Here, you lay back," Miles nudged her, crawling up the length of her body so he was poised between the dint of her hips. "Tell me how you feel, okay? Shhh, don't be nervous. Do you want me to move?"

Santana closed her eyes. She could feel his weight above her, pressing so close to her center, which felt more open and exposed than it had with Brittany. This felt different than it had with Brittany; where she'd felt warm, she now felt cold. She was more nervous than excited, unlike her first time with Brittany—but maybe it was only in retrospect that she was excited with Brittany. And she was excited now. Definitely.

Santana reached between her legs to adjust him so he was pressing against her. It felt different. Not bad. Not good. Different. Weird, because he was frozen above her and his arms were starting to shake, and because she could feel herself clenching at nothing, trying to pull him inside.

He pushed inside slowly, carefully, making sure that she was okay and he wasn't hurting her. And then he was resting his hips against hers, and he was all the way inside, and _oh_, that felt good. It hurt; it felt like a muscle getting stretched, but balanced on that dangerous precipice where it doesn't hurt but it could. He stretched her more than Brittany's fingers did; his weight felt more solid inside than fingers did.

Santana could feel her head buzzing, and the ache between her legs buzzing with it.

"You can move," she whispered, snaking her arms around his strong back so she could feel his warmth against her chest. He began to trust, so slowly she was clenching at him. And then he picked up speed, gradually, every few strokes. It was _definitely_ different than fingers. Fingers were controlled; _Brittany's_ fingers knew how Santana worked and how to tease an orgasm out of her like a potter would draw a bowl from a hunk of clay. Miles was hard and thick but wild; he butted against her a few times, and even when they'd worked up a rhythm, he lacked the finesse that had been inborn in Brittany. Maybe it was the dancer versus the baseball player; an artist who uses her body to emote and process versus a boy who hit balls with sticks and ran around a chalky field.

And then Santana was swept away with all of Miles; he was thrusting into her harder, building that skydiving feeling deep inside her belly, drawing it out of her. She could smell herself, musk and sweat and something delicate but faded, like flowers, and him, musk and sweat and something heavier, like the streets outside in summertime.

Miles came with a soulful cry hot against her neck. His pelvis knocked into hers and she grabbed his waist to lever herself away from him. She could hear her hipbones crack like when she fell too fast into a split, and her thigh muscles bunched up in a cramp from being pressed too hard into the bed. She cried out and shoved Miles off, snapping her sticky legs together once his weight was lifted.

Santana closed her eyes and flipped away from Miles. That hadn't felt like she thought it would. She didn't like it like she thought she would. Why did people even _do_ that? Maybe it would get better with time. Yeah. It had to.

The bedsprings squeaked as Miles pulled off the used condom. Then he turned and spooned Santana from behind, gently petting her arm and waist.

"That was awesome," he whispered against her hair. "So awesome. I like you."

Santana felt a sob catch like gravel had been slingshot into her throat. She felt pressure behind her eyes, but no tears came out. No. No no no, no, he couldn't; no one could like her; no one wanted her; she didn't want him; she didn't like him.

Miles shifted around, trying to mold her sandbag body against his. She could feel him against the backs of her thighs; he was gooey and cold and so, so gross. The weight in Santana's throat pressed against her windpipe, choking her. She felt the blood rush into her head as she tried to take a breath, but her constricted chest wouldn't let her inhale. She was drowning on air, on her panic.

"Santana, are you okay?" Miles asked, shifting up to the headboard until the back of her head was tucked into the slight—so slight, nothing like Brittany's—curve of his waist. She flinched and rolled away from him. If she could just take a breath the dizzy feeling would go away, but if she took a breath she'd start crying, and she couldn't do that in front of Miles.

"Santana, you're scaring me." Miles's voice had become nervous. "What's wrong, babe?"

_Babe_. The sweet nickname shouldn't have given her that suckerpunch feeling deep in her belly, but it did. He shouldn't... he couldn't... She needed to get out. She couldn't think with him there.

She turned to glare at him. "Leave me the fuck alone."

"W-what?" Miles gasped, clutching his musty blanket to his torso. "Santana—"

"You sucked," Santana snapped the first thing that came to her mind, sitting up and reaching for her inside-out shirt. She pulled it on and started looking for her pants, quashing all the thoughts that were trying to make her falter.

"But..."

"It was awful. I never want to see you again."

That one was cruel, even for her, but she was running on autopilot now: get out and go home, by any means necessary. Santana sat up and tugged on her shorts, grabbed her purse and reached for the door. Miles's eyes got misty and he rubbed his eyes.

"But why?" He pleaded. "I can get better... I've never done that before. I... I love you, Santana. I do. Please come back here, I can make it better."

Santana felt like she was going to vomit. She was breaking the heart of a boy who'd been nothing but sweet to her. She was snubbing him out like a lit cigarette under her foot. Miles hadn't done anything wrong. But staying with him? She couldn't do it. There were feelings involved now, feelings that she couldn't handle. Miles deserved someone sweet, someone who would love him back. Or something. Miles didn't deserve Santana.

"I thought this would be a good idea," she growled, gritting her teeth against the tightness in her chest. "I wanted a popular boyfriend to flaunt at school. But you're being clingy and that's such a turnoff."

She didn't even know half the garbage that was coming out of her mouth. That wasn't why she wanted to be with Miles, and she knew it. She was fucking lonely and wanted to be treated special by someone who liked her and wanted her there. But then he had to go and throw around the stupid L-word and ruin everything.

She had to crush him like a cockroach because it was better to break his heart completely than to let him think everything was okay. No pain, no gain. He'd get over it. She didn't care about him. Not at all.

"Please come here, Santana," Miles pleaded. "Come here and we can talk about it because now you're really scaring me."

Santana bit her knuckle to keep from snapping back at him. She was a bitch. A worthless bitch. A fucking _heartbreaker_.

Santana blinked back the burn in her eyes and slipped out of his door. She tiptoed through the dark house, where every shadow was a ghost and every sound a murderer. _Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch;_ the mantra got louder and harsher the faster she tried to get away. Santana raced all the way home, running from her feelings and too-tight skin.

The self-flagellation had stopped by the time Santana was riding the elevator up to her dad's condo, numb and counting down the seconds until she could walk into a scalding shower and burn everything off. But even a shower that made her skin blister crimson couldn't wash the grime off of the inside, the guilt that was tearing a fire-edged hole into her stomach.

She felt like someone was striking her across her back. She was just so _stupid_, though she couldn't understand why. She'd done everything right. _Everything_.

There was something wrong with her. A blackness in her soul or a blockage in her heart. It wasn't supposed to feel that bad. Santana knew she was being irrational, but she also knew she was right: she _wasn't_ supposed to feel like she did. But she did, and she could cry. It just wasn't _fair_.

She debated calling Brittany a few times, because when she was around Brittany she felt almost normal, because Brittany made _everything_ better. But she couldn't go to Brittany now. She just couldn't. She wasn't supposed to feel the way she felt about Brittany, either. And they hadn't talked in forever. It would be really weird and needy of Santana to call her _now_.

Santana just had to deal with it herself. She'd get over it. It probably just felt like such a big deal because it was so fresh in her mind. She'd be fine.

* * *

><p>The first blotches of pink had oozed across the sky when Santana allowed herself to get out of bed the next morning. She had spent the night half-sleep, curled in a stiff, tortured ball. She showered again, this one cold enough to turn her lips and fingers purple. It didn't make her feel better than the burning one had—she still felt <em>wrong<em>.

To make herself feel a little bit better, Santana fastened her friendship bracelet on again. The familiar weight against her wrist grounded her. She and Brittany had to be friends again. As much as Santana hated her own need, she _missed_ Brittany.

But would Brittany want her back? How does someone apologize for something they didn't do? Brittany had avoided her for this long—had it really been a month and a half?—so it wasn't like Santana could sit and wait for her to yo-yo back to her.

Maybe she could just pretend like nothing had happened? Yeah, that could work. She'd just slide up next to her in class and they'd be fine again. Brittany had to have missed her. Surly she'd take Santana back.

Time felt like it was barely passing the rest of the morning, but when it was time for her and Brittany's first shared class, Santana found herself frozen outside the door, unable to cross the threshold into the room. She'd been sitting in the back of the room for over a month now. Could she just shimmy in next to Brittany like nothing had happened? What if Brittany didn't _want_ to sit next to her? What if someone else sat next to Brittany? What if Brittany ignored her?

_You'll never know until you try._ The voice in her head sounded like Brittany. Santana screwed her eyes up and pushed through the door. She opened her eyes and glanced around the room—Brittany was sitting at a table in the front, doodling with a glittery pen in her notebook. Santana had to force herself to walk up to her, her thundering heart making her want to run and get it over with already. She inhaled through her nose and slid into the seat on Brittany's left.

"Hi." Santana's voice was trembled.

Brittany snapped her head up to look at Santana, surprise flashing in her eyes. "Hi."

Shit. Brittany didn't look happy. She didn't look sad, either, but she wasn't happy or grateful that Santana was there. Her eyes were guarded, probably because she didn't trust Santana anymore. _Shit_.

"I... um..." Santana's eyes flickered around the room, taking in Brittany's face, the whiteboard, Brittany's eyes, the door, the window, Brittany's lips.

Brittany just watched her, eternally patient. Her eyebrows were raised slightly in surprise, but the rest of her face was calm as a reflecting pool.

Santana fretted her fingers together, playing with her cuticles until she realized what she was doing. She flared her hands and shook them out a bit to calm herself.

Then she took a deep breath and reached for Brittany's arm, stroking the skin under her elbow delicately and just once, because they were in public and everybody could see them. But Santana couldn't find the right words to say, and she knew a touch would tell Brittany everything.

"I missed you," Santana peeped. If Brittany hadn't been sitting right next to her, she wouldn't have heard. Brittany visibly relaxed when Santana spoke. Her mouth twitched into a tiny grin and she pried Santana's hand off her arm so she could squeeze it once before slipping their pinkies together. It was achingly familiar. Santana smiled in relief.

"I missed you too," Brittany whispered. "I don't like when we fight."

"Do you maybe wanna hang out later?" Santana asked. She looked between both of Brittany's eyes, trying to gauge her reaction. Normally Santana wouldn't have bothered asking; she would have just given Brittany a flirty grin and smirked, "we should totally hang out later." Asking meant Brittany could say no. Commanding was better.

But now she wasn't sure Brittany would say yes, and that scared her. She pursed her lips and waited for Brittany's answer.

"Sure," Brittany looked conflicted for a moment, but her eyes were shining. That was a good sign, right?

"But Santana," Brittany whispered, squeezing her pinky. "I want to talk to you, okay?"

Santana pursed her lips. _Maybe_. Maybe they'd talk. But did they need to? It was in the past already. They were fine again—things might be awkward, but they were going to be fine. She hoped that Brittany would forget why they'd fought in the first place and then talking about it would be pointless.

Santana didn't let go of Brittany's pinky the entire day, except for one quick trip to the bathroom and Cheerios practice. Without Brittany attached to her finger, she felt too light, which was strange, because Brittany always told her, on those pale dawn mornings when Santana's guard was down, that Santana grounded her, bringing her into the real world and stopping her from rising into the air like an abandoned balloon. And Santana always responded that Brittany pulled her up, dragged her out of the swallowing darkness in her head and the bleak world in front of her.

They went home together after Cheerios practice, fresh, clean and scrubbed raw from their after-practice shower. It was the first time in nearly two days that Santana felt truly _clean_.

When they got home, Santana scooped ice cream into fancy blown glass bowls, even though ice cream was forbidden and only food for 'spineless, undetermined fatties and failures.' But it made Brittany happy, and if Brittany was happy, she wouldn't want to talk.

"You ignored me for weeks," Brittany said softly, stirring her ice cream around in her bowl, smoothing it down into a disk in the middle. She dented the center and smoothed it over again, worrying her bottom lip in her teeth.

"I don't know why..." Santana admitted, making her spoon match Brittany's circles. Her ice cream began to melt into a soupy puddle. _Shit_. Her ice cream plan wasn't working.

"I hurt your feelings," Brittany started chewing on her cheek, glancing up to look into Santana's eyes.

Santana laughed. It sounded faker than a porn star's moan.

"It's okay, Brittany. I was being a baby but we're over it now. Let's talk about something happy now. Did you see that new episode of Extreme Makeover? Totally bougie, right?"

Brittany's face fell. "Yeah, yeah it was... She looked like a sunburned rhinoceros."

Santana stifled a giggle.

"Santana," Brittany's voice was dangerously serious again. The edges of her eyes were rimmed red and her face was close enough that Santana could see her squinting to stop her tears from falling. "I thought you didn't like me anymore."

Santana opened her mouth to disagree because_ of course_ she liked her, but Brittany kept going. Her voice quivered; the heartbreak in her voice struck Santana right in her chest.

"I felt dumb because I couldn't understand why you hated me. I don't know what I did wrong. Quinn told me it was because you were jealous of me and that you wanted Carter, but that's not true because you told me he was gross because he talked too much about his motorcycle, and I know you weren't lying."

Santana pursed her lips. "No, Britt, I wasn't jealous of you." _I was jealous of _him_._

"And I didn't have anyone to talk to about it, Santana. Because it hurt but it felt good and you know why and you know how to make me feel better. I didn't have anyone to talk to at all. You understand me, Santana. Remember when we read_ Anne of Green Gables,_ and Anne told Diana they were bosom friends? Well, even though you thought that was totally wanky—which it was—you're _my_ bosom friend."

Santana had to blink back her tears. An apology was on the tip of her tongue but she couldn't get it out.

"Santana?" Brittany was searching her face now, moving closer until Santana could feel her warmth against her skin. Brittany threw her arms around Santana's shoulders, burying her damp face into her neck. She was shaking and pulling herself into Santana until Brittany was practically cradled in her lap. Santana smoothed her hands over Brittany's hair, screwing up her eyes so she wouldn't start to cry, either.

"And then I saw you and Miles," Brittany admitted against her neck. "He gave you a white teddy bear and you kissed his cheek and I thought you replaced me, only you loved him more, because _I'm_ not allowed to do that... and I tried to be happy for you, Santana, I really did. But it was so hard and I felt like you had thrown me away. And you looked so _happy_ with him and I just couldn't understand why it wasn't okay for me to be with Carter but you were allowed to be with Miles."

Santana pressed a kiss into the dint under the angle of Brittany's jaw. She could feel Brittany's tears dripping down her cheeks and it made her want to make it stop because Brittany _never_ cried. Santana hiccuped into Brittany's neck before she whispered into her soft skin.

"Because you were with Carter first, Britt. And I thought... I don't know what I thought. I'm really sorry. It won't happen again, okay? You can be with Carter if he makes you happy." _Even though I hate it because I don't want anyone else to make you happy._

Brittany pulled back a bit. "But I don't want to be with him, Santana. I don't want to date anyone. I don't want to choose between a boyfriend and you, because whenever I try to juggle I break things. He told me I was pretty and I liked that. Sex feels good... it's like you said, it means nothing; it's just relieving tension, and it made me feel special because when he looked at me his eyes were shiny."

Santana closed her eyes against the guilt that crushed her like a wave against the seashore. It was _her_ fault Brittany had fucked Carter, because she thought sex was meaningless and she had just wanted to be special. Didn't she know that that only applied to Santana?

"My legs are going numb," Santana admitted after a terse minute, shoving Brittany off of her lap. She tried not to see how Brittany's face fell into a deep frown because Santana was back to not talking about things. But she couldn't think of anything to say.

She swirled her ice cream around again, before spooning off a sliver. She held it up to Brittany, an encouraging smile on her face. A blush spread over Brittany's cheeks and Santana's heart constricted uncomfortably. _Damn_. Why was she so cute?

She fed Brittany the ice cream, her own face heating up when Brittany's eyes flashed dangerously.

"You know what would be super fun?" Brittany purred. She was obviously not feeling bad anymore, because her eyes looked almost predatory as she lifted her spoon and watched a melted rivulet run off the edge. "Licking this off each other."

Santana's lower stomach clenched. "Sounds hot," she smiled, grabbing her bowl and standing up. "_Super_ hot."

It was after they had finished the last of the ice cream—which, by the way, tasted _way_ better off of Brittany's stomach and thighs than from the bowl—and were snuggling under Santana's sheets that Brittany summoned up the courage to speak again.

"I still don't understand why you were upset," she whispered, nudging her fingers under Santana's pajama shirt to stroke her belly. Santana blushed and nodded. There was something about being in bed with Brittany—being held by Brittany, surrounded by her warmth and her scent—that made Santana feel safe and almost precious. Talking about scary things wasn't as scary in Brittany's arms.

"But why, Santana?" Santana could hear the words rushing out of Brittany's mouth in a storm, her brain moving faster than her mouth. "We aren't exclusive. You said we can't date each other, because it's gross, and we _weren't_. I mean, I could understand if we were, because that's how most people seem to do it, but like, it felt good, Santana. Sex feels really good."

_Did it feel as good with him as it did with me? Why did you go to someone else if you like me? Aren't I the best, Brittany? The one you like the most?_

"I fucked Miles," Santana spat, the words flat on her tongue.

Brittany looked startled, her eyelashes fluttering in surprise. Then her face slid down, her eyes softening until they looked _sorry_ for Santana.

"It's no big deal," Santana continued, "it's just what people do. We're teenagers and we're horny. Plus it's super great for our rep. Guys like girls who are easy."

At least, that's what MTV and Playboy and the jocks who leered at them outside of the locker rooms said.

"And we should take advantage of our hotness, Britt. Popularity is the best. I want all the guys to want us, and all the girls to want to _be_ us. It's fun; you'll see."

Brittany looked dubious.

"Is it okay if I like Sweet Lady Kisses with you the best?" Brittany finally whispered, drawing Santana closer to her chest. Santana closed her eyes against Brittany's shoulder, inhaling deeply. The way Brittany smelled always comforted Santana, even when her words scared her. She _did_ like her the best.

"We should be careful, though," Santana's words were feather-soft against Brittany's neck. "If we're going to fuck our way to the top. Make sure he wears protection, okay? And maybe we should go on birth control. Teen moms are so unsexy and I don't want you to throw your life away on demon spawn."

"What's demon spawn?" Brittany furrowed her eyebrows. "I don't remember that from health class."

Santana bit her lip. Brittany's babies would be beautiful. They'd look like her and sound like her and Santana would love them and watch them grow up, because they were going to move into houses next to each other when they were older.

"All babies are demon spawn when they're born. They're psychopathic squished aliens."

"My sister wasn't. She was beautiful."

Santana laughed. "Fine. Your kids will be gorgeous, Britt. But don't have them yet, because then we'll never go to college together." They'd talked about their future before: they'd move out of Lima and go a big city somewhere. They'd be roommates and do everything together. And it would be awesome.

So the thought of Brittany getting pregnant in high school by some neanderthal that would abandon or abuse her terrified Santana. It couldn't happen. It wouldn't happen. It would never happen because Brittany was better than that, so why should she waste time thinking about it? Especially when she lay safe in Brittany's arms.

"I care about you a lot, B," Santana finally whispered, her voice as delicate and vulnerable as a newborn kitten. It was as close to_ I love you_ as she'd get.

But it warmed her heart to hear the smile in Brittany's voice when she said, "Me too."


	5. Climbing, part 1

**So many thank yous to relax-o-vision and roamingreader for their help with this chapter. **

**My eighteenth birthday is the 27th so you all should leave me happy birthday reviews. Totally. Hint, hint. **

**There are some very, very dark scenes in this chapter. Trigger warning for rape and self-loathing. Please read with caution. Rainn dot org has resources and a hotline for victims of rape, abuse and incest if you want to talk to someone, and my PM mailbox and tumblr ask box are always open. I also have a copy of this chapter without the trigger scene that I will send if you drop me a PM/leave your email address in my ask box. **

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><p>Sophomore year started where Freshman left off: parties, a revolving door of boys with chapped lips and strong backs and summer smells, getting A's but pretending to flunk because it wasn't cool to be smart, and Brittany. Always Brittany: they were best friends—better than that, almost, because they were closer. Brittany's mom liked to joke that Santana was her third daughter—the "good" daughter because she did dishes and fed the cats and picked up after herself—and that Santana and Brittany were attached at the hip. But that didn't mean they didn't have their own stuff because they totally did: Brittany had motocross and dance and one night stands and her job as assistant-assistant choreographer for the Cheerios, and Santana had... well, Santana had Puck.<p>

Puck, who had strutted his way into her life at the end of the last school year with a proposition of I'm-Hot-And-You're-Hot-So-Let's-Be-Hot-Together. She rejected him, of course—just because she was a slut didn't mean she'd spread her legs for everyone—but he persisted. He left gifts in her locker and texted teenage boy poetry that was one part endearing to two parts disgusting, and then when Puck gave one of the hockey team douches a black eye because he had threatened to fuck Santana so hard she'd be inside out, she couldn't exactly say no.

But it was okay: she liked dating Puck. She liked having a claim on someone hot, someone to make out with at parties, someone to make out with when she was bored, someone to steal her trinkets, someone to take her out to fancy dinners (take her out, but not pay: bad kids don't pay).

Puck was charming. And surprisingly good in bed. The best of any guy she'd ever had. He was open to new things—to letting her take control, fuck him hard, scratch him up—unlike the dipshits who thought the only way for her to have sex was flat on her back while her legs were spread wide enough to drive a train through. For the record? Missionary was just about as fulfilling as the lunch period she had to attend when all she could have was a bottle of master cleanse.

So, yeah, fucking Puck was pretty good. She'd ride him until the ache between her legs went away. He even made her come once or twice, after he accidentally discovered what made her see stars. She wasn't in love with him or anything, like Quinn and her manchild boyfriend Finn were, but whatever. Quinn and Finn might be All That in the streets but they were Not That—at all—in the sheets. Quinn's chastity belt was wound too tight for Finn to get close without a rouge finger getting trapped. Who wanted a relationship like that?

So boring.

They were in high school. They had hormones. Puck and Santana were smarter than Quinn and Finn: fuck as many hot people as they could while they were hot themselves. Who cared if they were dating? Santana still fucked boys—and Brittany, but she didn't count—and she'd heard enough about Puck's conquests through the locker room grapevine to know he was still sleeping around, too.

Santana guessed that if Puck had been like, magical or something, the way Quinn and some of the other Cheerios talked about boyfriends being, she and Puck would have tried to stay faithful. But monogamy was like missionary: so overrated. Variety was exciting. Puck understood. Puck more than understood.

Sometimes, when Santana was lying under Brittany's warm weight, or pressing feather kisses onto her chest, worries would nip like rose thorns. Did she feel enough for Puck? Did she feel anything for Puck? And the other guys: sweaty, meaty, ungrateful boys she thought were hot under the illusions of alcohol and smoke, but loathed once the mystery—and their clothes—were removed? Was she supposed to actually like them? Someone had to, right? That was why she was supposed to sleep with them; that's why fucking them meant popularity.

And—she only thought this sometimes, when it slipped through, when she couldn't help but lace her hands with the briars—why did Brittany make her zap alive where no one else could? Why did she like her body best? Make her want to map out her curves and kiss her dimples and scars until they were more familiar than her own? Remind her of what it felt like to feel, like her heart was bubbling over?

But that was normal. Wasn't it? It had to be. Brittany was... the boys weren't... There was something wrong with all the dumb boys in Lima, Ohio, not Santana, okay?

It couldn't be her. It wasn't her. She was too hot to be broken.

* * *

><p>The text said: 'come over babe I want u.'<p>

She obeyed because she was supposed to—she'd be crazy to say no when her boyfriend beckoned. And fucking Puck was fun: she'd knock him back and push him down and fuck him until his bones were jelly and his chest was flushed crimson and shone in the lamplight.

But that night was different. She should have known—should have ignored him, stayed home, called Brittany instead—that fucking an angry Puck while riding her own wave of shame would be disastrous.

She just wanted to forget. Forget how she failed Coach, the pungency of her armpits, the loss of her tanning privileges, how she was forced to join Glee club and how she'd caught Quinn crying during second period. She wanted to forget how she'd never be good enough—not her friends, her teachers, Puck, her parents, _Brittany_—and how seeing Brittany in her bikini last week had made Santana take her in rapture in a shower stall once everyone had left. Santana wanted to forget how her parents didn't love her—had never loved her—and the way Brittany looked, her bottoms a scarlet splash around her ankles and her eyes shining so, so brightly while Santana molded against her like she'd disappear if she wasn't held down. Santana wanted to forget how Brittany's bronzed hair clung to her shoulders, how the industrial lights made halos, how Britt tilted her head back and moaned and how her skin was stretched over her collarbones like the flesh of a peach that Santana wanted to sink her teeth into. She needed to forget that. All of that.

So, she drove to Puck's. It was easier to fuck her feelings into oblivion than to remember to forget them.

Puck answered the door in a pair of sweats with ripped hems and a scowl, his bare chest and biceps glistening.

"Hey," he hitched his chin at her, standing aside so she could breeze past him. "Was just pumping some iron. Getting the testosterone flowing. 'Sup?" His eyes were dead and glazed over.

"I think that's... hot," Santana purred, placing her open palm against Puck's clammy chest. "I want to fuck you." She dragged a stripe down his pecs, toward his legs. His jaw tightened.

"No, I'm going to to fuck _you_." He grabbed her hand and tugged her to his room. "I'm not some fucking twink."

Normal Santana would have asked him what the fuck was his problem. Normal Santana would have left. Normal Santana would have slapped him and fucked him hard just to prove he was wrong.

But this Santana wasn't normal—her failures made her flash quick and hot, lest she crack open and cry.

Crying was for overemotional wimps.

Puck's fury was electric and overwhelming. He grabbed her and kissed her before pushing her onto his bed and slamming his hips against hers. His finesse was gone; this Puck was stripped down and animalistic. His tongue tasted like fear. She could feel his hard-on through his cutoffs.

"Talk, damnit," Puck growled, rutting up between Santana's legs. "Tell me I'm your man. Call me your shark. Tell me I'm enough, god fucking damnit." Something coiled white-hot in his muscles and he slammed a fist next to her head. He cried out—broken, mournful—and then he clenched his jaw so tight his teeth squeaked.

Santana was too afraid to speak; stop bunched up like a snapped rubber band in her chest when she tried. Puck cried again. He leaned hard against her chest as he ripped off his sweats. Then he tore her pants and underwear off—not like she tried to fight him, paralyzed as she was.

He knocked their pelvises together until he was hard enough to enter her. Santana was dry and tight with fear, but Puck ignored her pain.

"C-condom." It was a demand, not a request, however shaky.

Puck shook his head and thrust harder. Fuck. That hurt. Tears burned the backs of Santana's eyes, but she was too proud to let them spill.

Puck growled: "I'm so fucking tired of having to be responsible. I just want to fuck you. No condoms. Don't need them."

Santana should have thrown him off—she was smarter than that. She knew the consequences, especially with her petri dish boyfriend. But Puck was pinning her down and she was too leaden to fight him. His musky scent heavy was in the air—sharper than usual—and his dick was thrusting between her legs. Everything was spinning, too fast for Santana to gather her bearings and figure out what to do. She wanted him to stop. She wanted everything to stop. But she didn't think he would if she asked; she didn't want to upset him by shouting it or bucking him off. Besides, she couldn't—girls like her didn't say no. That's why he liked her: she never said no. There were thousands of girls Puck could fuck, and he chose her. He always came back to her. She couldn't throw that away, not now, not when she still remembered what she needed to forget.

Maybe it was because they had done it so often that her body now reacted on its own accord, like muscle memory. Maybe she was finally turning into the machine she feared she'd become, her responses automatic. Or maybe she was betraying herself again—the space between her thighs was shamefully slick.

She was wet, slumped into Puck's mattress so it hurt less. His sweaty deadweight was crushing her chest like a sheet of metal buckling against a wall. He was panting in her ear, little whines and feral grunts, his breath hot and sticky against her neck. His palms spread her legs until her hips cracked, which made her hiss and arch into him. Her fingernails tore wings into his back.

The noise he made when he came was hardly human; he sounded wounded. Eventually Puck pulled out and bent double on the edge of the bed, his thick hands hiding his face.

"That fucking faggot from your gay club tried out today." His voice was muffled and empty. "Kicked the fucking ball straight through the post. Coach loves him. Says he's going to save the team. That fairy is going to win us a championship and get the fuck out of here and I'm going to be stuck in fucking Lima forever knowing I was beaten by that fucking twink."

Santana tucked her knees to her chest. She felt like she was underwater, and all she could hear was the crash of her heartbeat reverberating in her tender skull. What had Puck just done? He took her, used her, scared her into letting it happen. He'd come inside her; she could feel the slickness cold and tacky between her thighs. She could smell it, pungent and dizzying. His sweat was drying on her skin and her mouth tasted like cottonballs and sour spit. There were red marks on her hipbones that were going to darken into ugly bruises. Her chest was crushed and her lungs were ballooning for breath. Fear clamped itself around her heart, but it felt more like fury. How could they? How could he?

It was all his fault—all of it.

She wanted to strangle him, kick him between his bare legs, hurt him until he felt miserable like her. She wanted to beat him—never mind that he was twice her weight. She needed to break something and make her own hurt go away.

Fuck. She needed to leave.

Now.

Santana heard Puck howl as she made her way downstairs. Then a slam—and another. He was pounding the walls.

The noise stopped, and there was another cry.

She wished she could destroy something, pummel it beyond recognition, until the bitterness and suffering and sorrow leached out and soaked into the ground instead of her heart. But she couldn't—it wasn't that easy.

She wanted to cry.

* * *

><p>It rained on the drive to CVS. Santana's headlights were the only illumination on the dreary road. Raindrops pounded her windshield like a ream of paintballs; harsh and furious. They stung as she ducked inside the dingy store, burrowed deep into her Cheerios jacket.<p>

The air conditioning made her damp skin clammy. The commercial lighting hurt her eyes. What the fuck had she done?

_No, don't think about it. Get the shit and leave. Pray you don't know the cashier. _

Santana slinked toward the contraceptive isle. Her ears and cheeks and neck were burning. _Shit_.

There—Plan B. And two pregnancy tests, for later. To make sure it worked. Santana didn't know if she was angry at herself, or at Puck, or ashamed of her stupidity. She balled her fists up by the ridges of her hipbones and pressed them there. She wasn't going to cry in a CVS like a pathetic loser or bratty wimp or a fucking pussy. She could handle her own fucking mistakes. She'd go home and take the capsule and scald herself clean in a shower hot enough to burn. And add tonight to the list of things she wasn't going to think about.

Fuck. Clean. Pregnancy wasn't the worst thing she could get. She was on the pill; an unplanned pregnancy would be the least of her worries. Who knew what she would catch from Puck? She was going to get herpes and syphilis and chlamydia and all those pus-wart-rash things they showed in Health. Fuck. Double fuck. Triple fuck. Just fuck. She was screwed.

No. She couldn't be. She wasn't. The universe didn't hate her enough to fuck the rest of her life over for one stupid mistake. Whatever. She was going to march up to the checkout counter, pay, drive home, shower, and forget this night ever happened. She was going to call a clinic in the morning to get screened, just in case. It was just precautionary. She was fine.

Santana paid and drove home. She grabbed her warmest pajamas—a pair of sky blue flannels on permanent loan from Brittany—on her way to the bathroom. She turned the faucet on as hot as she could stand, swallowed the pill while she waited for the water to heat up, and stepped into the shower still fully dressed. She winced as the water stung her eyes and blistered against her skin, but she knew she needed it this hot. She peeled off her clothes and let them slap against the bottom of her tub.

Then she washed. And washed again. She worked white shampoo and conditioner into her hair and soap into her skin until she was red and raw. Then she closed her eyes, held her breath, and stood under the downpour until she felt sick.

No matter how ravaged her skin felt, her insides were ice. The contrast strengthened the longer she waited for her stubborn bones to warm up.

She toweled off and pulled on her pajamas. Her joints were brittle. She just needed to sleep.

Her bed swallowed her; for the first time, her silk sheets were dark and cruel instead of sultry. Was her room always this cold? She shivered under her comforter, trying—and failing—to get warm. Her house creaked and sputtered, ominous instead of calming.

Shit. She wasn't going to sleep, was she?

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><p>The next morning's shower wasn't cold enough to jolt Santana up from her half awake, half asleep, sweatsoaked nightmare. The tap was turned as far right as it would go; Santana's teeth ached and her bones hurt, but it couldn't banish the necrosis eating her inside.<p>

No breakfast. Instead, she called a clinic. The clerk was nice. Too nice. Her bubblegum voice hurt Santana's ears.

Her stomach rolled at the dialtone; Santana retched with the ghost of Puck's breath against her face. She brushed her teeth in another shower, this one as hot as the one last night. It still failed to warm her.

It was the weekend, so no cheer costume. Santana couldn't handle the miniskirt, anyway. She found another pair of pajamas and shivered herself to exhaustion.

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><p>When she woke up, the sky was dusky purple. Her phone was ringing—Brittany.<p>

"Hey." God, she sounded meek. Santana cleared her throat and tried again; forceful and demanding, her insides anything but. "Hi."

Brittany's voice was lazy sunshine and sugar. "Hey," she breathed, "Where've you been?"

To hell and back. "Sleeping."

"Oh, are you sick? Hang on, I'll be right over." The line went dead before Santana could reply.

Santana showered again before Brittany arrived. When she got out, Brittany was stretched on Santana's bed, nestled in her sheets, hair windblown and spun gold in the dim light. She grinned stretched, supine, arching her bare belly out toward Santana. Then she scooted backwards: an invitation.

Santana tucked herself next to Brittany like a glass figurine in velvet; close enough to feel her warmth, but not touch.

Brittany sensed her trepidation.

"Something happened?"Brittany hazed her hand above Santana's breastbone; when Santana didn't flinch, she lowered it.

The touch, the weight of Brittany's palm against her chest—her heart—made Santana want to break again; but she was too proud to cry. Brittany rubbed slow circles, like a clock, and Santana felt the stitches against her heart melt until she could breathe again.

Closer, Brittany pressed, lengthwise against her. She widened her revolutions, pulling more and more of Santana's resolve with each swipe.

"What happened?"

The warm palm on her chest stopped her from seizing.

"Britt," she whimpered, too desperate for pride. "Britt, Puck was angry. We fucked and it hurt." It was a half-truth: the real reason she hurt so bad withered on Santana's tongue before she speak it. And once the smoke cleared, her bravery was gone. She burst into tears and clung to Brittany. It just hurt too much—all of it. And it wasn't Puck, either; something clung just beneath the surface like a virus, clouding the air with dread Santana couldn't shake. It wasn't being used—that hurt, but it wasn't the first time—it was something sinister. Something Santana was too weak to accept; something wrong that she couldn't name.

Brittany didn't care that Santana was defective, or that she was getting snot on her shirt. She just pulled her close—one hand flat on her back, the other her neck—and cooed until Santana calmed down. She gasped like a stranded fish while Brittany pressed tender kisses into her hairline.

And when Santana's syncopated breaths were strong enough that Brittany didn't worry she'd break her by moving, she pulled her closer, and breathed deep against her chest. Santana rested her ear against Brittany and listened to her heartbeat—let the reservoir of sunlight under Brittany's skin warm her, breathed her softness.

Brittany shifted under her, cradling her in the glen of her hips. Santana cried out when their hips brushed; she was unashamed when Brittany peeled away her shirt, but she couldn't help the pang when Brittany's face crumpled: ten slugs—five on each hipbone—were inked into her skin.

Britt traced them carefully, but the puffiness still made Santana wince. Brittany followed a scratch—was it from Puck or her nails as she'd showered this morning?—up Santana's ribs, and gingerly prodded the yellow-green splotch above Santana's left breast. Santana gasped. Brittany brushed her lips over the bruise, and then the apple of her cheek. She slid her hands to cup Santana's ribs, and then stroked the crooks of her elbows that always ached when Brittany touched her like this.

Santana should have stopped her—would have, on any other day—but god fucking damnit, she needed this right now.

The light outside Santana's window turned from afternoon to deep evening as Brittany touched her all over, brushing her fingers over Santana's skin in hot, soft strokes. Brittany smoothed the tension out like the creases of a shirt, tucking Santana back into her skin, and sealing the edges with kisses like wax.

Brittany's fingertips pressed words into her skin, words Santana would never let her say out loud. And when Santana woke up the next morning, curled like a half shell over Brittany's chest, her heart was full: she could handle the day's misgivings because Brittany was there—and she loved her. She had to.

* * *

><p>"You really do have lovely eyes, Santana," Gayboy Kurt said. Kurt was the only actual gay in the Gay Club. But he wasn't gay-as-in-happy; he was prissy as fuck, but never <em>happy. <em>

And why should he be? He had no friends, no social standing, no real talents unless breaking glass with his voice counted. Sure, he won that football game, but had anything changed? Except for the safe haven of Glee, nobody liked him, and he was still slushied and swirlied and dumpster-dumped on a regular basis.

This was the closest Santana had ever been to him. She'd made it a point to stay away; talking to Kurt was social suicide and his flamboyance made her uncomfortable. He was one of those super gay kids that never needed to come out: everyone—except Mercedes, apparently, if how easy Santana and Quinn manipulated her last week was any indication—just _knew._

The New Directions was scattered around in the choir room after the first Invitationals number; Kurt, at Santana's insistence, was reapplying her makeup for "Somebody to Love." Brittany was behind them, running her hands through the costumes on the rack. She'd been running her fingers through Santana's hair until it had become too much and Santana had to stop her. To break the strained silence, Santana had thrust an eyeliner pencil into Kurt's hand and raised her eyebrow until he offered to help.

Kurt was sweet, resting his delicate pinky against her cheek as he penciled her eyebrows in. He and Brittany talked about some dance thing they'd done at his house—_See, Santana, that's what happens when you kick me out—_and he and Santana bitched about the latest copy of _Vogue. _

Everything went to shit a few seconds later: April Rhodes was gone, they weren't performing, Barbra showed up, and despite the fact she didn't know the music or choreography, she was going to replace April because they were performing again. Oh, and she was back in the club.

Whatever. It's not like Santana cared about what happened here, anyway: their goal was to bring the Glee Club down, and whether it came down by internal undermining or the almighty hand of God wasn't Santana's concern.

Santana stood on stage with her back to the audience, watching Brittany tap her left hand against her thigh. They weren't pre-performance jitters; Brittany owned this basic shit in her sleep. She was just excited—she _liked _performing.

Lurch started singing, and the rest of the club joined in choir-like behind him. The choreography and harmonies were simple but fun; Santana beamed out toward the crowd as she dipped and turned. Kurt, high on performing, caught Santana's eye during a downstage crossroad and smiled at her. It was the first time she'd ever seen a smile reach his eyes; he was always so drawn and guarded that Santana couldn't remember a time he hadn't been curled inward in defense.

She smiled back, too, broad and almost proud. Performing was a high of its own.

Mercedes tilted her head back and wailed the last note; Santana stretched her hand out to brush her fingertips against the stagelights. And then the song was over, and the audience was cheering for them, and they had done it!

The greenroom was a flurry of activity. With an eyeroll, Santana let herself get caught up in the excitement: for all she hated this stupid club, it was _fun. _Santana noticed Kurt bouncing between people as they got ready to leave, his hair ruffled from changing. He handed something to Finn and beamed at him, his gooey eyes nauseatingly obvious. Santana didn't see the rest of the exchange because she was hurrying: the faster she dressed was the faster she could go home—with Brittany.

"Brittany, Santana, wait!" Kurt caught up with them, a smile brightening his usual pallor. He held out two pieces of paper decorated like a microphone—_Cast Party _was written in curling, glittery silver script. "Please come?"

Brittany moved to take an invitation, but Santana slapped her hand away. She glared at Kurt for a moment before dragging Brittany down the hall. She agreed to this stupid assignment for school functions—nobody said anything about spending time with these losers afterwards.

Santana didn't notice how Kurt's face fell, or how Brittany flashed him an apologetic smile. And Santana certainly didn't feel _bad _for her cruelty—she never did, so why start now?"

"That was mean," Brittany chastised as they slid into the back of Santana's dad's car.

"And?"

Brittany shrugged, pursed her lips, and said, "He's nice."

"Being nice doesn't make him popular. I don't want him thinking we're friends. We're teammates."

"He's my friend, Santana." Brittany drew the collar of her sweater up to her chin.

"Well, he's not mine." There was a leaden rock in the pit of Santana's stomach, and this conversation was the cause.

"Why?"

Silence. Brittany's forehead wrinkled in confusion.

"I just don't like him," Santana sighed. She started digging through her bag to break the silence. "He makes me uncomfortable. He's so... out there, you know? Why can't he turn it off?"

Brittany shrugged. "If he could, he would. He can't help it."

"Then I don't have to like him." That was as close to an answer as she could get, and it was true: it wasn't his fault he was weird—wasn't his fault he was friendless and lonely—but that didn't mean she had to put up with it.

And later that night, after they totally didn't almost go further than kissing through an entire movie, Brittany brought Kurt up again.

"He's tries, you know."

What? "Who?"

"He invited Tina and I over the other day, for 'Single Ladies.' He has a very fancy room. His dad's nice."

"What are you talking about, Britt?" Sometimes Brittany thought so fast she forgot to inform Santana about the first half of a conversation.

"Kurt. He's nice. He doesn't want to be capital-G gay but he can't really help it. I think it makes his dad sad and that makes him sad so he tried not to be. You're acting like all those people who are mean to him at school, Santana."

Something jolted through Santana's chest. "W-what?" God knew Santana loved Brittany, but sometimes she was just _wrong_.

Brittany reached over and touched Santana's cheek. "You don't like Kurt because he scares you."

Santana flinched. That was... no. No way in _hell. _

"Goodnight, Britt." Santana grimaced and rolled over. Fuck. She wasn't going to sleep now. Why'd Brittany have to put _ideas _in her head? Santana wasn't fucking _scared _of Kurt. He was as threatening as a ladybug. He made her uncomfortable, but he wasn't scary. He wasn't the King Midas of Gays; not everything he touched was going to leech his gayness.

And it's not like Santana had anything to worry about. Being around someone gay didn't mean _she _was. She wasn't. Brittany was just her friend. They sometimes... it wasn't sex. It didn't mean anything.

Brittany sighed sweetly—was she asleep, or doing it on purpose?—and pressed against Santana from the back. _Shit_.

No.

No way in hell.

Fuck.

Santana wasn't gay. She wasn't gay because she wouldn't let it win.

* * *

><p>Santana's lips were stained crimson and sticky. Her tongue was thick and heavy. Damn cupcakes! Who knew Puck could bake? How many had she had? Too many. Never a whole one—and never the cake—but she'd swiped the frosting off of at least a dozen. They were that good. Damn Nana Puckerman! Those cupcakes were seriously amazing. Santana was going to have to do a million crunches so Sue wouldn't notice the sugar settling onto her thighs.<p>

But she'd do it later, because right now her brain was buzzing and her face was tacky and she needed something to drink, but she couldn't get up because Brittany was lying on top of her, her mouth stained scarlet and spread into a wide grin.

"Your lips look so good," Brittany husked, taking Santana's bottom lip between her own and sucking it into her mouth. God. Brittany's lips were magical. Brittany's breasts were pressed against hers through their nylon tops and they were magical, too. Brittany was magical. Her lips were sugary and slick and so, so good.

Santana moaned and tilted her head back so Brittany would kiss her again. She felt good. What did Santana have to be afraid of, anyway? It was just Brittany, and Brittany wasn't scary. She was hot. She was kissing Santana's lips and dragging her fingers up and down her sides. Santana wouldn't—couldn't—stop her.

Santana's dad wasn't home and wouldn't be for a while. Brittany could stay as long as she'd want. They could order a pizza—mmm, pizza—and have ice cream and popcorn and maybe some breadsticks and oh god, what was Brittany doing to her neck? Kissing it, licking, sucking, not hard enough to leave a hickey because only Puck could do that, but hard enough that Santana could feel her everywhere and oh god, it felt so awesome.

"Your lips taste really good, Santana," Brittany breathed against her neck. "And your skin. You taste good. I want—I need more. Please..." Santana could feel Brittany's eyelashes flutter closed against the dip of her neck, screwed up in a silent prayer, _please oh please say yes Santana. _

Santana moaned—loud, too loud, but too late, it was already out—and begged, "Kiss me. I need more, too."

It was hard to say, because Santana never _needed_ anything, especially not Brittany's lips and sugarcoated tongue, but right now Santana didn't care because Brittany was kissing her, hard, and her lips were so sweet and swollen from the sugar; they threw fuel into the fire of Santana's veins. Was Brittany always this awesome? How did Santana ever turn this down?

Brittany kissed her harder and Santana could feel her heart skip a beat, which meant she was nervous, but what could she be thinking about when Santana's tongue was laving the dimple on her bottom lip? Brittany opened her mouth to say something—or worse, ask something—but Santana dipped her tongue inside Brittany's hot, wet mouth so she wouldn't have a chance. Speaking was bad. Kissing was good. They should be doing more of it.

Kissing was something people never realized you had to do with your whole body, at least for the best kind. Santana shifted so Brittany could slip between her legs and rest their torsos together, their breasts and bellies pressed into a kiss of their own. She trailed her hands up over the delicate curve Brittany's ass and up the back of her shirt onto her strong, soft, warm back, and then Brittany moaned, and then they were _really_ kissing.

Brittany kissed a line to the sweet spot on the angle of Santana's jaw, but too hard, like she had to soak in as much as she could before it would be taken away, so Santana sat up and tried not to notice the way Brittany's face crinkled in sadness. She probably thought it was over, but no, Santana was on fire and she needed more and needed Brittany and god, why did Brittany have to drag feelings into this? They were fine without them.

"My shirt." Santana's lips were slick so she wiped them on the back of her hand. "And yours," she added, letting her eyes soften into a twinkle. "There must be something in the air because you feel so good, baby."

And shit, the pet name just slipped out, but it didn't mean anything if Santana didn't linger, so Santana tried to calm the flush on her cheeks as she peeled off her shirt. She folded it and reached to help Brittany out of hers. She ran her fingers over Brittany's waist and hips and breasts—so soft, so feminine, so sweet—for the first time in daylight. They always touched in the dark—quick, mistaken, clumsy like a secret—because it was easy to brush things off and forget when she didn't have to face clarity. Brittany's skin was soft and pliant under Santana's fingertips. Santana fanned her fingers across the arc of Brittany's ribcage and felt her heartbeat thunder through her palms.

"How..." Brittany started to say once her head was free from her shirt, but she cut herself off. Santana knew what she was asking.

"As far as you want," she husked, looking through her eyelashes at Brittany. "I'm so fucking horny and you're so fucking hot."

"Can we...?" Brittany tapped her pointer fingers together and refused to glance at Santana.

So Santana sided up next to her and curled around her like a question mark, tucking her face into the warm crook of Brittany's neck. "You don't have to be afraid of me, you know," she whispered, "I lo—like you. I like you even when I say mean things. It's like I'm not even there, I swear. I don't even know..."

She was cut off by a sweet, sticky kiss that made her toes curl. Nimble fingers peeled off the rest of her clothes and then Brittany sat up, leaving Santana bare and shaking as she watched her shuck off her bra and skirt and underwear. Brittany grinned and stretched her chest out for Santana to admire—which she did—before turning and clicking off Santana's lamp.

The darkness settled heavy over Santana's chest like syrup, dimming everything until all she could see was the shadowy gold of Brittany's hair spreading like a slick wave over her chest as she pressed a kiss onto her breast, next to her nipple, so close that Santana gasped and shuddered because it was too much.

Brittany pecked kisses everywhere until Santana was lost in a cloud of Brittany, of spring flowers and vanilla and sugar and the velvet of her skin. She played her, pulled something white-hot from her chest like an artist drawing wire, until everything was saturated with her Britt. Just Brittany, only Brittany, in a fog of lust and fire and something that felt a lot like love. Like being loved, like she never felt unless Brittany was moving against her, pressing sweet kisses and warm touches on places that only lit up when Brittany was there.

But then everything was wrong. Brittany was moving down—moving down and _kissing_—the plane of her stomach to the dip between her legs and no, they didn't do that, because it was weird and gross and it meant things it shouldn't and shit, she needed to move, needed to do something, because they just couldn't and why did Brittany do things like that, god fucking _damnit_.

"Stop!" She clamped her legs shut, squeezing Brittany's head, before pulling them open so she could move out of the way. Her voice was too frightened and too high to be casual about it. Quick, make a joke. "What are you doing, silly?" She grinned, trying to pull Brittany, who had turned to stone, up the length of her body. "My mouth is up here."

"But I want to," Brittany mumbled, resting her cool, slippery head against Santana's inner thigh and drawing patterns on it. "I think you'd really like it..."

Santana's hips bucked. Brittany's head against her thigh meant she couldn't cross her legs to make the wet throbbing go away. "Like it? Are you kidding? It's so gross. Like, that's so not what mouths are for. Come kiss me, Britt. We can do it the usual—" and shit, they had a usual, "—way and then we can order dinner because I'm hungry, aren't you hungry?"

Brittany shook her head and pressed her lips against the aching fold between Santana's inner thigh and her mound. Santana let out a strangled gasp as her legs spread wider. Shit. _Oh yes oh please Brittany please. _

Brittany's kisses moved in, and then out again. She rested her cheek against Santana's thigh and placed her hand possessively over her hipbone and just... stared at her. Stared between her legs. Santana was too turned on to care; she was wet, wetter than she'd ever been, wet enough she could feel it dripping down her ass. Everything was aching: her neck, her eyelids, her lips, her armpits, her ribs, the furrow of her thighs—but mostly between her legs.

"Please, Brittany. Please." Santana begged. Brittany gave her a quick peck before placing a long, open-mouthed kiss there.

"Oh god, yes," Santana moaned, throwing her head back and closing her eyes and spreading her legs for more. Brittany's fingers were great—better than great, they were the best—but her lips were magical. "Please."

And then Brittany's tongue was on Santana before she had time to realize how pathetically she was begging, and her lips were playing with her, and everything was soft touches and wet nudges and she could feel Brittany's breath and nose brushing against her and Santana had never felt so open, so raw, so loved before. Then Brittany kissed her and lipped her and Santana almost lost it. Her back arched up into her and her heart beat all the way down to her fingertips and a pained breath shuddered out of her chest before she could stop it. There was a pressure building, between her rolling hips and in her chest, and Brittany was pulling her toward a precipice so damn fast that she didn't know what to do other than let Brittany keep going, let her breath catch on the edge, and just _feel_.

And then something inside cracked open, and she was falling hard—harder than ever—and then she was crying too, because there was wet on her face and her chest felt broken and she could feel stickiness sliding down her thighs and Brittany was there, wiping her face on the pillow and kissing Santana's temple and cheeks and eyelids, smelling damp and musky, and _oh my god what had they just done_?

No. She couldn't think about that. Not now, not when Brittany was kissing the divot under the angle of her jaw, stroking her belly, and running her toes up and down the curve of Santana's oversensitive calf. Not when her nipples were so hard they ached. Not when she wanted to _do that _to Brittany, and didn't think it was weird.

But could she? Do that? Touch her like she'd been touched, touch her so... intimately? She wanted to—she was aching to—but _could _she? Could she kiss Brittany there, find out if she tasted as sharp-bitter and earthy as she smelled? Would she feel the same as she did with fingers? Would... would Brittany like it?

Brittany rolled them over so Santana was lying half on top of her, cradling her in the nest her wine-colored sheets made. Her hands flickered—unsure, timid, like nervous birds—from Santana's ass to her waist to her shoulders. She finally settled for the valley of Santana's back that stretched between her scapula, and pulled her close. Their nearness was electric; Santana could feel Brittany's heart beating through her skin like a warm, pounding storm.

Santana held her close for a moment, letting her lips sink sweetly into the flesh of Brittany's neck. Everything was soft and kind: Brittany felt small and precious under her, like she'd break if Santana pressed too hard.

Santana kissed her way to Brittany's chest, sucking first one nipple and then the other, watching a warm, rosy flush creepy its way over her chest and onto her cheeks, neck and ears. She exhaled, shaky, and opened her eyes. They were a deep, intense blue that made Santana's heart lurch.

It was too much. But no, she could do this. She _wanted _to.

Santana ran her palms over the plane of Brittany's stomach, scooting down the length of her legs to the crest of her hip. It was less than graceful—Santana slipped and almost pitched facefirst into Brittany's ribs—but Brittany only laughed and brushed Santana's hair out of her face. _So she can see_, Santana realized with a shiver. _So she can see what I look like—what we look like. _

Santana nestled in the space between Brittany's legs. Her dip was obscured by shadows, but Santana could see the twin ridges of Brittany's hips in the ambient light. She kissed the side of her mound like Brittany had done to her before smoothing her hands across her thighs. She pushed her legs open, gently, and settled between her.

Brittany was flushed dark, deep pink and was so wet she shone. She was beautiful in a way Santana couldn't articulate. Santana had smelled her, but never this close: she was rich and heady and almost coppery. Santana leaned forward and licked a fold; she was swollen and soft and slippery. Brittany gasped, so Santana did it again, and again, hard and firm—anything that would pull sounds deep and yearning from Brittany's throat.

Brittany's hips bucked so hard Santana lost her rhythm. She brushed her thumbs over the crests of Brittany's thighs and moved in more. Her top lip brushed against her clit and Brittany's hands flew to her head. She brushed Santana's hair over her ears, frantic, and begged for her to do that—to _please _do that—again.

So Santana did. She didn't think, just closed her eyes and touched Brittany. Santana shifted closer and tucked her forearm under her chest. The fingers of her other hand spread possessively over Brittany's hipbone like a five-point star. Santana licked the plump, pliant skin until Brittany came, hard, around Santana's face.

There was a sudden draft in the room. Santana wiped her lips and chin on the back of her arm and crawled up the length of Brittany's body. Brittany pulled her close and folded her in her arms.

"That was..." Brittany whispered, twining their legs together. Santana could feel her, hot and wet and sticky, pressed against her belly. She nodded meekly and buried her face in the dint of Brittany's shoulder.

"Oh, Santana," Brittany breathed. Her voice was tender and it made Santana's throat close up.

She tried not to cry, she really did. But the tears came, wet and fast. She clung to Brittany and shook, overwhelmed with the closeness and the nearness and the gravity of what they had just done.

"Breathe," Brittany cooed. Her voice sounded sad now and it made Santana sob harder. "Don't cry, please. You were good, Santana, that felt good. It was... it was really cool. You felt better than I could have dreamed of."

And knowing that Brittany had dreamed about doing that made Santana cry so hard she couldn't breathe.

"Don't cry, Santana," Brittany pleaded. "I liked it, I really did, and you can too. It's okay?"

Was it? It had to be—it felt too good to be bad.

"Y-yeah," Santana took a shuddering breath and tried to ease the pressure in her ribcage. Her heart pried itself from its place in her throat and slowed down. "I just... got overwhelmed. Or something. It's not a big deal. I'm fine."

She'd just gone down on her best friend. No big deal. Not at all. She was fine. Totally fine.

Santana tried to match her breathing to Brittany's but she stayed a panicked half-step behind her. She was silent while Brittany struggled to brave the question on her tongue. But Santana knew it, and she knew the answer.

"That felt... like, really amazing." She turned so she could tuck herself further into Brittany's embrace. "I just... wow. I didn't know I could feel like that. Wow." Santana had to stop herself from talking more, from saying more words, silly words, words like 'I loved that' and 'Can we do that again?' and 'I love you'.

So she didn't. She just laid there and breathed and tried not to let everything soak in, tried not to clamp her sticky legs together and run away.

Lightening hadn't struck them dead. This didn't have to be a big deal if Santana didn't make it one.

* * *

><p>Things with Brittany were... different after the bake sale. Santana felt a shock when they brushed against each other in the hall; her stomach twisted over itself when Brittany breezed by and she could smell her.<p>

She felt closer to her, more connected: she could feel Brittany's heartbeat and see how bright her eyes were when she'd returned the favor that afternoon. She should have felt scared, or disgusted—she _went down on her best friend—_but her desire to make Brittany feel good had overpowered her caution.

But the intimacy was _not _good. It made everything harder; it made saying no personal. It made Brittany think it was okay to be all over her all the time—draped across her lap in Glee Club, twining her hair around her spindle fingers in class, trading almost-kisses like candy in the halls—and it was _not _okay.

And then Brittany thought she could fucking _talk _about it. Rule number one: no talking.

"I like it when we... I like Sweet Lady Kisses, Santana."

"Mmhmm." Santana snapped her gum and copied her geometry homework over for Brittany.

"I like them a lot." Brittany informed her. Santana risked a glance at Brittany's face. Bad idea: her eyes were shiny and hopeful.

"Your point?" Santana raised her eyebrow in the vain hope Brittany would leave well enough alone.

Nope. "Maybe we should... I don't know... can we have them more often?"

"What?" Santana squinted and shook her head. "Now? Britt, I'm too sore to get my mack on. We're in a _library. _I'm good."

Brittany twisted her mouth to one side and was silent while Santana finished a proof.

"It's just... well... I like spending time with you... and if you were sleeping this much with Puck—"

Santana growled. "Don't mention him, I'm angry at him." _Stop talking, Britt. _

Brittany hunched her shoulders. "If you and Puck were doing what we are, you'd want to go somewhere fancy for dinner. You know. A date."

Santana jumped at the insinuation, scratching a long gray line down Brittany's homework. "Yeah, well, you and I aren't Puck and I. _Wait_, are you asking me to take you out on a... a _date_?" The last word was whispered. Santana started scrubbing the sheet with her eraser, hard enough to wrinkle the paper.

"I'm not Puck, Brittany!" She hissed. "Ugh! Why would you even _think _of that? Don't mess things up. We're not going out, Britt. Not like that. We're not _like _that. _Girls _don't date."

The harshness of Santana's voice made Brittany fold up in on herself. "But we're..."

Santana tore a hole through Brittany's worksheet. She crumpled it, growled, and threw her eraser and notebook into her backpack. The muscles in her arms and legs were clenching—_run. _

"Yeah, you know what? We're fuck—" Shit, Brittany looked like she was going to cry. Santana softened: she wasn't that heartless. Brittany didn't know better—it had been a while since Santana had reminded her. "We're just... fooling around sometimes, okay? Not dating. It's just sex. So we're _definitely _not dating. Stop pouting, Britt." Santana slung her bag over her shoulder and stood up.

"Santana, wait." Brittany reached out a hand to touch Santana's. "I... I really, _really _like you..."

"I don't like you, Britt, not like that. I'm going home now—you do your homework. And don't come by for a while, okay? I just want to be alone. See you around."

Santana powerwalked out of the library, guilt gnawing an ulcer through her stomach. But she hadn't done anything wrong, right? There was no reason to feel ashamed—boundaries were there for a reason. Sleeping with Brittany in the daytime was a mistake: Santana would make sure it would never happen again.

She didn't talk to Brittany for a week after that, and Brittany learned her lesson—she didn't bring up what they did for a very long time.

* * *

><p>"Dudes, this is serious. If she finds out she's gonna tell Finn. She's a total trout-mouth." Santana hears Wheelchair Dude—Artie—say as she and Brittany breezed past. They were talking about Rachel, and the baby Finn thought was his. The baby that was <em>actually <em>Puck's. Shit. Santana pulled her phone from her bra and called Tina; in seconds, she was connected.

"We just heard—who _told_?"

"We assumed it was you."

"And why would I do that?" Santana gritted her teeth. She was a bitch, not _evil. _

"To get back at Puck," Kurt explained, "Aren't you guys dating?"

Santana glared, even though he couldn't see her. Just because she hated everyone didn't mean she would spill secrets like that, jeez. If she'd wanted to hurt Quinn or Puck she'd stab and twist where it would hurt—without using the Hobbit and Jolly Green Giant. Plus, the irony of their situation and the impending shit-hitting-the-fan were enough schadenfreude for Santana to want to meddle.

"Sex is _not_ dating."

And it wasn't; Santana didn't date the dipshit who got the Chastity Queen pregnant. She fucked Puck because it was convenient, but they both knew it didn't go beyond that. And Quinn had enough to deal with without Santana instigating drama; shit would hit the fan eventually.

"If it were, Santana and I would be dating," Brittany deadpanned.

_What? _Santana's heart clenched painfully and a shiver jolted through her; she froze, mid-step, her mouth open and her eyes flickering to see if anyone heard. Nobody said anything for a god-awful second until Santana swallowed sandpaper and caught herself. _Brush it off and pretend it never happened. Distract them—now. _"Look, I don't want to rock the boat. Since Quinn got pregnant, I'm top dog around here."

Santana flung her arm in front of Brittany when Mercedes told them to hold up because Rachel was walking by. Then, like the nylon across Brittany's chest could burn her, Santana jerked her arm back. Everyone talked around her, but Santana was gone. She stared ahead and ignored Brittany's concerned gaze at her cheek—after _that_, she didn't get to care about her. The hallway faded like watercolors until only she and Brittany were left. How could she? How _could _she? The line went dead and Santana snapped her phone shut. Santana risked a glance to Brittany's stoic face. She turned to face her.

Betrayal made Santana's eyes sting. How _could _she?Brittany's eyes were glazed over and stormy, but they didn't look sorry. Santana was going to die. Santana was going to die because Brittany told _everyone. _

* * *

><p>Santana avoided Brittany after that: in the choir room where they found out Bush Baby Guidance Counselor was their Sectionals chaperone, when Finn started beating Puck up because Rachel fucking spilled, and the terse bus ride to the competition. Being close meant people would get ideas. Afraid of her anger and her fear, Santana twisted on her earbuds and chewed her bottom lip until they arrived at the auditorium.<p>

She hung back as everyone else—Brittany holding Kurt's hand in excitement to spite her—rushed inside to sign in. Santana sauntered inside and found an empty alcove outside the theater. She sat down on the corner of a red pleather couch that stuck to the back of her bare thighs. Brittany found her a few minutes later, and slid into the slot next to her.

"They spelled our name wrong, Santana."

Santana raised her eyebrow.

"I thought we were the Nu_de_ _E_rections," Brittany's eyes twinkled. She grinned, trying to engage her. Santana rolled her eyes and shrugged: the joke was _old _and she was still angry.

Bush Baby bumbled her way through a positive mojo peptalk. Brittany, caught up in the excitement and determined not to let Santana's attitude ruin her time, nodded along and bumped her knee against Santana's.

Whatever. The house lights blinked and a buzzer sounded; time to file in. Santana pushed her way ahead of everyone and inside the theater. She picked the isle seat and, luckily, Brittany didn't try sit next to her.

The lights dimmed and a deep, smoky alto filled the room—and she was singing _And I Am Telling You. _Oh, shit. Santana glared through the rest of the song, but dropped her head in her hands when the Jane Addams girls rolled out in wheelchairs.

Fuck. They were _screwed. _

Santana lead the group single-file out of the auditorium like a funeral procession. Rachel rested her head against a pillar and Artie started ramming himself into a wall—something Santana would have found hilarious if she wasn't so heartbroken. The Deaf School was going to do _Don't Stop Believing_, and then what? New Directions would go on and look like they had plagiarized from a reform school and a bunch of _deaf _kids? This was it. They were finished.

_Sue. _She must have leaked the set list! But how? Santana hadn't given it to her—had played dumb, pretended she didn't pay enough attention to remember the list, had endured taunts and insults and two weeks of suicides to make sure Sue wouldn't ruin today for her. And Brittany wouldn't have spilled—she knew better than that.

To nobody's surprise, the Harverbrook kids sung Journey. Rachel called an emergency greenroom meeting and stormed out of the auditorium; everyone followed her after a moment.

Brittany jogged to catch up with Santana.

"I don't understand," she said, tugging on Santana's jacket. "Santana, what are we going to do? Santana, I gave Coa—"

Santana brushed her off and stalked into the greenroom. Kurt turned on them as soon as they entered.

"You leaked the set list!" He accused. "You don't want to be here—you're just Sue Sylvester's little moles!"

Santana sneered, incredulous, but felt the attitude slide off as Quinn walked in behind them to turn them in.

"I know for a fact that's true. Sue asked us to spy for her."

_Traitor. _Santana rolled her eyes. "Look, we may still be Cheerios, but neither of us gave Sue the set list." How _dare _they!

"Well..." Oh, shit, _no_. "I-I did, but I didn't know what she was going to do with it."

Fuck. No. She'd got to her—Sue'd gotten to her when Santana left Brittany alone. Alone and vulnerable. It was all her fault. Fuck.

The energy in the room deflated. A few kids—Artie, Kurt, Mercedes—glared at them. At Brittany.

"Okay, look, believe what you want," Santana crossed her arms and strutted away from Brittany—to get the attention off of her, to right this wrong—and addressed the room, HBIC false confidence in place. "But no one's _forcing _me to be here."

Everyone still looked angry. _Shit. _Quick, show a weakness, pretend to be like them—but just a little. "And if you tell anyone this I'll deny it, but I like being in Glee Club. It's the best part of my day, okay? I wasn't going to go and mess it up."

Shit. Too much. Now she was upset _and _vulnerable. Nobody said anything for a minute, but then Rachel pushed off from the wall.

"I believe you," she said, and Santana smiled at her. And now everything would be okay, because Rachel was in Full Neurotic Performer Mode. They had a ballad and a closing number before Finnocence walked in, clutching a stack of sheet music with his mouth agape.

"Mike, Matt, Brittany, Santana—you're our best dancers. Figure something out and we'll all follow your lead."

Santana grabbed the stack and brought it over to the desk. Brittany slid up behind her and leaned over, her hand on the small of Santana's back and her head so close Santana could smell her shampoo. Something floral and sweet, and a little dry.

"Are you still mad?" Brittany whispered. "Please don't be..."

Her guilt had dissolved her anger. "No, Britt, we're cool. I... let's just get through this, okay? What choreo do you want to do?"

They ran the group numbers once before going on. It was choppy and simplistic, but it would have to do because they couldn't stall any longer.

Backstage, Brittany quarantined herself in the corner and shook out her limbs in numerical sets. Kurt ran scales. Tina bit her nails, Finn scratched his neck, and Artie popped wheelies with the safeties off. And Santana just stood and watched them, too nervous to sink into a warmup. She tried to run over the choreography, but was too nervous—sabotage and cheating combined with the fact Brittany let it spill that they were _sleeping _together made her mind blank and numb. So she stood, felt her heart beat up her throat, and prayed that they wouldn't choke.

She could hear Berry all the way backstage—for all she hated and made fun of her, the girl had _pipes. _

_Band_, there, that was their cue.

"Game faces, guys," Kurt squeaked. "Smile through the nerves."

* * *

><p>Everything hit Santana on the bus ride back, twined around Brittany on the seat above the back wheel so they could sleep without getting jostled. She and Kurt were the only one's still awake—everyone else had passed out with dreamy smiles and light hearts. Berry was clutching the trophy like a stuffed animal.<p>

They'd done it—they'd won! They'd thrown together haphazard choreography and vocals after their set list was stolen, had no rehearsal time, and were amid a pregnancy scandal, so it was a miracle they had even competed, let alone _win_. Santana couldn't believe it, couldn't let herself get excited because she still felt like she was dreaming. She closed her eyes and snuggled into Brittany's hair, but the eyes boring a hole through the top of her head stopped her from relaxing.

Kurt's pale green-blue eyes were washed out in the dim light. There was something in his gaze, in the creases he was too young to have, in the line between his eyebrows, and the pallor of his skin that chilled Santana's blood.

He _knew. _No. He _thought _he knew—he didn't know anything. Because Santana wasn't... she _wasn't_. Because she couldn't be, because she was _better _than that. Just because she and Brittany fucked didn't mean anything—didn't warrant that stupid, knowing _look _from Kurt.

Santana tried to glare Kurt away, but the fear around her heart stopped her. She couldn't even hold his gaze.

_Weak. _

She squeezed Brittany to her pounding chest, holding her close to stop the bus from spinning.

"Santana?"

He was _looking_ at her. He was _looking_ at her with his stupid judgmental _face. _Just because he was gay didn't mean she was—he must have thought he could see it in her, like a flashing rainbow flag was tattooed on her forehead, but he couldn't see it in her because there was nothing to see. _Nothing_. She wasn't... _gay_.

Santana squeezed Brittany tighter.

Sometimes she slept with her, and that was okay. Wasn't it? Didn't girls do that sometimes? Girls were better lovers—better _fucks_—than guys were, because they were the same. And Brittany was her best friend. It just made sense.

"Santana?"

Nothing was going to change. Kurt was _looking_ but he didn't have any friends—there was no one he could tell who would believe him. Everyone else had forgotten Brittany's slip-up in the baby drama, right? They had to have. Nobody mentioned it; nobody had looked at her, except Kurt now. She wouldn't have to deal with it once they got to McKinley. It was her word against his, and nobody would back him up because nobody else caught it. They didn't.

He was pathetic. Baby-faced with a voice like he'd been castrated. He was ugly and weird and his staring was creepy. He was probably looking for others like him, and _shit, _now he thought Santana was. But she wasn't—couldn't be.

That was it. She wasn't going to sleep with Brittany again. Wasn't going to let idiots like Kurt think she was like him—ever. They'd gone on long enough, and now there were _consequences. _Shit.

No, no more. Santana would get Puck back and she'd stop touching Brittany and Kurt would stop staring at her and she wouldn't feel so goddamn—

"Santana, _please, _you're hurting me." Brittany's voice was soft and strained with pain. She was twisting, trying to escape from Santana's harsh grip. Santana let go of her, and almost threw up when she realized there were red marks on Brittany's neck and arms from being held so tight.

What the fuck was _wrong _with her? Ashamed, Santana hunched over and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes to stop the burning. _Don't cry, don't fucking cry. _

How _could _she? How could she hurt Brittany after all she'd done? It was all _her _fault she'd leaked the set list, because Santana had been too much of a fucking _coward _to protect her. She'd been caught up in herself—had ignored Brittany because she tried to make what they did about _feelings_ and not whatever it was, which wasn't what _Kurt _thought it was—and had abandoned her best friend. She'd left Brittany alone and Sue had taken advantage of her and they'd almost ruined _everything_—and it was all Santana's fault.

She wanted to pound her skin, pound her hipbones until they shattered, tear at her skin until it tore. She wanted to hurt herself for being so _stupid, _for _failing, _for—

"It'll be okay, Santana," Brittany cooed. Her touch, her nearness, her _smell_ made Santana's chest ache like it had been scoured. She was too raw to breathe.

Santana didn't have the heart to tell Brittany it wouldn't be—it wouldn't be okay.


End file.
